


Opposite Day

by Feynite



Series: Sharkbait [8]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Feynite Fanwork, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-18
Updated: 2018-12-18
Packaged: 2019-09-21 13:10:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 76,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17044349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Feynite/pseuds/Feynite
Summary: Wherein Uthvir is a regular elf of no particular note, and Thenvunin was born in service of Sylaise rather than Mythal.





	1. Chapter 1

Commander Thenvunin seems to be a quite humourless man.

 

It is a shame, Uthvir thinks. He is also a quite __fetching__  man. A little boring on some fronts, perhaps, but there is enough in his look that their eye keeps drifting back to him over the course of the evening. The first Summer Banquet of the year. Most of Sylaise’s followers had declined to attend Andruil’s event, of course, preferring to keep to their own festivities in the other parts of the city. But a few had attended, as a token gesture. Just as there are a few of Andruil’s people up at the crystal palace, sipping sparkling wine and probably listening to the most tediously dull music ever dragged out of a diamond-studded harp.

 

Andruil’s banquet, on the other hand, is the sort of party people actually __enjoy.__  Uthvir has made certain of that. The air is filled with the scents of delicious roasting meats, the music is the kind people can actually dance to, the drinks are plentiful and diverse, and there are actual events and displays worth engaging with. A few of Ghilan’nain’s custom creatures are even accompanying the servants, weaving between the crowds and prompting compliments as they gracefully solicit pets and treats.

 

There are plans being made for the summer hunts, too, trophies displayed and talk among the high-ranking hunters that would appeal to anyone with an inclination towards weaponry and martial skill.

 

So really, there is no reason at all for one of Sylaise’s champions to not be enjoying himself. Not that Uthvir is __surprised,__  but still. It is a shame. The man actually seems to have a body somewhere underneath all that silvery formal armour. And every so often a curl of hair escapes the confines of his diamond circlet, as if at least __some__  part him would like to cut loose a little.

 

Uthvir watches him for another half hour, before finally giving in and slinking their way over.

 

“Commander Thenvunin,” they greet. “I don’t believe we have been introduced. My name is Uthvir - I am the Events Manager in charge of this banquet.”

 

They offer the commander a polite quarter-bow. He looks down his nose at them for a moment, and just when they are beginning to wonder if he would actually be bold enough to __snub__  them, he returns the gesture. Rigid as a plank, but technically polite enough to squeak by.

 

“I had no idea Andruil’s followers were referring to this as a ‘banquet’,” he drawls. The only visible quality to his aura is a low-level disdain, just ambiguous enough to not be offensive.

  
Skirting the boundaries on all fronts, it seems.

 

Uthvir musters up their most charming smile.

 

“Yes, it probably is a bit raucous as compared to what you are used to,” they reply, and reach over to acquire a drink from one of the servants making rounds with their tray. The drink is red and syrupy, sweet enough to appeal to the tastes of their guests, but they dislike the way it clings to their tongue. They sip it all the same, though - a drink is a handy thing to have, to help swallow back sarcasm.

 

“Raucous? It is positively primitive,” Thenvunin sniffs.

 

“The decor?” Uthvir asks, wondering if _that_  is what has gotten the man’s feathers all ruffled. The style is very _hunter-ish _,__  they suppose, which is generally antithetical to Sylaise’s trends. Sometimes deliberately. Their Lady does enjoy baiting her sister, and there are few better ways to do it than to make the streets of Arlathan _unpretty _.__  But they had planned this evening with an eye for moderation. There are trophies, yes, and open cooking fires, and tamed beasts about. But there is also no dearth of finery. Even the servants are impeccably dressed, and the art and music on display has been commissioned from the city, not from Andruil’s holdings.

 

Thenvunin, however, merely tilts his head, and then gestures dismissively.

 

“The whole of it,” he insists. “It is disorganized. And such _events_  are not befitting of a banquet.”

 

He looks to where the archery games are taking place.

 

Uthvir raises an eyebrow at that, and gives him another glance.

 

“Unbecoming?” they ask. Now, they think, they might be getting annoyed. Trust one of Sylaise’s people to pick apart one of the best cultural balancing acts the city has likely ever seen. These people probably would not know compromise if it jumped up and bit their pretty backsides. “Are you not a military man, Commander? Or are you the sort who prefers to fight by way of spells, and curl your lip at anyone who fights by hand?”

 

Thenvunin scowls at them.

 

“Hardly,” he says, with a fervency that surprises them. Then he sucks in a breath, and looks away again. “But events must suit the venue. To claim this is a _banquet_  and then to include such ‘festivities’ is verging on absurdity.”

 

Interesting.

 

Uthvir suddenly finds themselves feeling like an imp with a stick, staring at a sleeping beast and wondering if…?

 

“I suppose it is a bit intimidating. Your people are hardly known for martial prowess, after all. It is simply a different set of standards. Even the lowliest of Andruil’s hunters are expected to at least have _some_  skill with a weapon,” they reply, attempting to inject as much gracious placation into their tone as they can manage. Thenvunin’s eyebrow twitches, as they take a sip of their too-sweet drink.

 

“I assure you, _Manager,_  my skills with many weapons are impeccable,” he snaps.

 

“Of course,” Uthvir concedes, in such a way as to imply they are still being ever-so-placating. “It is nothing to be ashamed of, either way. Magical combat is ultimately the most crucial sort.”

 

Thenvunin looks as if they just shoved a wedge of lemon directly into his mouth.

 

Uthvir disguises a smirk with another sip from their drink. This approach seems to be even more effective than they might have guessed.

 

At garnering a reaction, anyway. They remind themselves that they are here to make friends, not to jab at Sylaise’s people. But before they can begin to smooth over the feathers they have ruffled, the commander gestures back towards the combat games.

 

“And what about you?” he asks, still sneering. “If even the ‘lowliest’, as you say, know their way around a weapon, then I suppose a Manager could only be expected to acquit themselves adequately? Yet I have not seen you lift a bow or knife all evening.”

 

Uthvir pauses, for a moment. They give Thenvunin another once-over.

 

“Why, Commander - have you been watching me?” they ask.

 

He freezes, for just a half moment.

 

“ _ _I__  have been watching the events,” he retorts, coldly. “However inappropriate they may be to a __banquet,__  they are still within my interests. As I have explained.”

 

“Ah. I see. You must be very observant, then, to have watched each of them so closely.”

 

“I am.”

 

Thenvunin’s tone is clipped, and his back remains rigid, but Uthvir thinks they catch just the faintest hint of embarrassment off of him. For what, they wonder? Observing them? Despite their teasing, it would hardly be uncommon for one of Sylaise’s people to keep an eye on the manager of an event. Unless there _is_  some atypical reason for them to draw Thenvunin’s eye?

 

Something to make him self-conscious of it?

 

He does have a fair enough form. They treat him to a somewhat more __blatant__  once-over, and do not think they imagine the colour rising - just a little - to the tops of his cheeks. Even as the expression of disapproval remains quite firmly in place.

 

After a moment, Uthvir knocks back the rest of their drink, and deposits it on another servant’s tray. They clap their hands together.

 

“Well then!” they declare, with a smirk. “If such events are of interest to you, then we must see to your entertainment! You look __far__  too dour, Commander, it simply will not do. Our Ladies’ tastes may differ but the general point of any festivity does not. Come! Let’s you and I prove our skills to one another.”

 

Thenvunin’s lips thin, and he regains his ‘just ate a lemon wedge’ look. But they see him weighing things for a moment, too, as his gaze flits back over to the games. Not completely socially inept, in that case - a surprisingly high number of Sylaise’s people somehow also manage to have the civil grace of used chamber pots, despite supposedly embodying Arlathan’s hospitality.

 

Though, Uthvir supposes, it is not necessarily _misrepresenting_  the city _ _…__

 

They see the moment when Thenvunin decides that declining would cost him more than accepting. He offers them a terse nod, and fails to look at all pleased about it.

 

Uthvir smiles enough to make up the difference, as they lead him towards some of the ranges, and gesture expansively.

 

“What is your preference?” they ask. “Archery? Darts? Knives?”

 

“Swords are my __preference,__  but I could acquit myself with any of those,” the commander assures them. “And seeing as how there does not seem to be a swordsmanship ring…”

 

Uthvir hums thoughtfully.

 

“Indeed there is not. I would call it an oversight, but truth be told, I omitted swords in the hopes of preventing some injuries. Given that we are in mixed company, and your Lady’s followers are not known for their strength of arms, it seemed prudent,” they confess, unable to resist needling the man. They _should_  resist, but something about this man just makes them want to keep pulling at him; like a loose thread.

 

“I assure you, our arms are more than strong enough to match any hunter’s,” Thenvunin insists. “I should be more worried for _your_ state, were I to face you with a sword. A single blow would knock you from your feet.”

 

Uthvir grins, wide.

 

“Is that a challenge?” they wonder.

 

Thenvunin scoffs.

 

“I am no brute. I would not wield a sword against a slip of a thing like you,” he declares.

 

Despite themselves, they feel a sting of genuine irritation at that.

 

Their grin gains an edge.

 

 _“Slip?”_ they ask, archly.

 

Thenvunin - rather pointedly - looks down at them.

 

Uthvir tilts their head, raises a hand, and signals for one of the servants. Telanin hurries over at their gesture, with enough skill to avoid interrupting the flow of the banquet.

 

“Commander Thenvunin is a self-proclaimed swordsman, Telanin, and it seems we have grossly neglected his interests by failing to include a ring for him. Please procure a pair of suitable longswords and my fine sparring armour. I shall have to personally make it up to him for the insult,” they say. Telanin nods, and rushes off again - efficient one, Uthvir appreciates it quite a bit - while Thenvunin scoffs at them.

 

“I have no intention of fighting you,” he insists. “You are not even a combatant.”

 

“As I said, Commander, all of my Lady's hunters are expected to have some skill in these matters,” they reply, taking a moment to - yet again - size him up. But this time as an opponent. He is tall, and broad, and effective enough to make some name for himself as a field commander. But that could mean nothing in terms of his actual skill with a sword. It is possible he only selected the weapon as a cover for his deficiencies elsewhere. That he noticed the absence of the weapon and named it on that grounds.

 

But they would rather not take the chance of underestimating him.

 

“Unless you are backing down?” they inquire.

 

Thenvunin’s frown deepens. His chin lifts.

 

“Decency might demand it of me,” he declares.

 

“Mm. I doubt it - but I assure you, Commander, if at any point I feel dangerously overwhelmed, I will submit. Provided, of course, that you promise me the same thing.”

 

They throw in a wink, and are rewarded when the commander bristles. He folds his arms, and opens his mouth. Only to shut it a moment later, with a disdainful shake of his head.

 

“It would take more than the likes of _you_  to overwhelm me,” he finally settles on saying.

 

"Is that a challenge?” they wonder.

 

He narrows his eyes at him, and declines to answer. But they think they can see more of it, now. There is something beneath that surface veneer of his. Good, bad, explosively awful - that is trickier to say, but it certainly seems more interesting than the statue that had been treading circles around the edges of their party.

 

And despite his protestations, when Telanin returns, Thenvunin accepts his weapon for inspection. Uthvir secures a suitable spot for them, confiscating it from a particularly slow game of darts, and drums up a modest audience. Just enough onlookers to keep things interesting - and relatively secure, too. Commander Thenvunin does not seem the type to maim, but one can never be too sure.

 

His eyebrows do go up a little when he sees Uthvir in their sparring armour. The gear is lightweight, and easy enough to piece over some of their formal wear for the evening. They offer to let Thenvunin acquire something better, in the event that his formal armour is unsuitable for real use. But he just lifts his chin and assures them his outfit is more than up to the task.

 

Uthvir suspects he is going to start out tentative, though. And the suspicion is proven correct, as they take up position, and exchange bows, and Thenvunin hesitates to launch into the aggressive role. Uthvir obligingly takes it up themselves, at least for the first few motions. When they nearly disarm him in two moves, Thenvunin’s lips thin, and his attitude adjusts accordingly. The lines of his body tighten up as he takes on a more serious stance.

 

He _does_  hit hard. He was right about that. Uthvir tries to avoid direct blows where they can. Fortunately, the man’s style has a __lot__  of flash. Substance, too, but the former does him a certain disservice - and the audience seems to make him doubly aware not only of what he is doing, but of how it looks.

 

Ah, the pitfalls of Sylaise’s rigid aesthetic standards.

 

Uthvir, of course, has an image to maintain as well, but it is not one which precludes a certain amount of viciousness. They use Thenvunin’s self-awareness against him, forcing him to choose between countering their moves or keeping up appearances. It takes a while before he actually starts choosing the former, and by then Uthvir can read some frustration in his moves.

 

But he does not start trying to cleave at them, the way that some would, and as well as frustration there is _excitement_ to him. Not overtly. But Uthvir is close by and they can feel it in the energy of his movements, and the strain of his muscles. Clinging to his skin.

 

He really _does_  like to fight.

 

What a pleasant surprise.

 

It takes Uthvir aback just long enough for him to actually catch them with a blow. Their effort to block comes too late, blade too low, so they summon up a barrier instead. But the fight is too close-quarters and the moment too swift, so of course the spell shatters on contact. It knocks them backwards. The flash of it catches Thenvunin’s gaze and sends __him__  staggering, too.

 

Unexpectedly granting Uthvir the opportunity to knock him entirely off of his feet. They get his weapon out of his hand, and in their rush to secure the match, pin him as swiftly and thoroughly as they can manage to. He resists, of course, which directs a lot of their movements, until finally they feel him straining and know they have him right where they need him.

 

In all honesty, their physical positioning does not actually cross their mind until several moments later.

 

Commander Thenvunin, as it happens, is a _very flexible_  man.

 

His cheeks are definitely flushed, as Uthvir pins their full weight to him, with his legs bent back and his wrists beneath their hands. They catch a very distinctive flare of arousal, there and gone again, that makes another brief appearance as they offer him a toothy smirk and tighten their grip on him. Just enough to press the tips of their nails to his wrists. His chest heaves with the force of his breathes - and they are panting, too, come to it.

 

Well, well, well.

 

 _Full_ of surprises.

 

“I win,” they declare, happily.

 

Thenvunin moves to push them off, and they let him. He hastens to his feet, and the air around him stops radiating anything other than very clear and pointed outrage.

 

“How __dare__  you?” he snaps. “Spells which impede senses or movement are banned from casual duels, you cheated!”

 

Uthvir snorts, and straightens out some of their clothing as the onlookers start to debate among themselves.

 

“Well firstly, that was a __spar,__  not a __duel.__  So the rules you are citing do not apply. And secondly, that was not an impediment spell, that was a barrier. The fact that you were not prepared for the consequences of striking it is hardly __my__  fault,” they drawl. Several hunters murmur in agreement, though a few abstain. Uthvir would not expect them all to take their side, though. They are not… _uniformly popular_  among their peers.

 

Thenvunin looks furious. It is a good cover for his blush, though they honestly have no idea if he is really as angry as he seems.

 

“That was a duel! It was a challenge, and I accepted. On my honour. And if you valued _yours_  you should have recognized that the shattering barrier created an unintended infraction, and given it time to dissipate before resuming the match!” he insists.

 

Uthvir shrugs, and spreads their hands.

 

“If you wanted me to go _easy_  on you-”

 

“As if I would! Obeying the rules of a bout is a separate matter-”

 

“I hardly consider it a breach of etiquette to defy ‘rules’ that were not even agreed upon-”

 

“The __format__  of the challenge-”

 

“What challenge? This was a friendly, entertaining and recreational spar-”

 

“Oh and I suppose all that talk of…”

 

Thenvunin trails off. Uthvir raises an eyebrow, and their lips twitch. All that talk of _submission?_ But the commander seems to be stymied at the prospect of mentioning that in front of a crowd.

 

“Yes?” they prompt.

 

It earns them a magnificent glower.

 

“I refuse to concede,” he insists.

 

A few of Sylaise’s followers murmur, at that. It is uncommonly ungracious of one of their own, after all. And for so casual a match - Uthvir wonders how the social trade of manners and dignity will pan out. It might be something worth paying attention to, if only to better understand how these things go in one of Arlathan’s premiere social circles.

 

“Ah,” they permit, and incline their head. “In that case, when would you like to schedule the rematch?”

 

The sour-lemon-face comes back.

 

Uthvir is beginning to find that one particularly amusing.

 

“...I suppose we will have to discuss it at a later date,” the commander decides, with another glance over towards the onlookers. “It would be unbecoming to further disrupt the events of your… ‘banquet’.”

 

“In that case, I should like to invite you to have lunch with me tomorrow,” they decide, on the spot. Tomorrow is their rest day. Not normally a time for entertaining, and usually they need a break after organizing an event like this - but one luncheon will hardly put them out. “We can discuss our rematch, and take our time establishing the rules to our mutual satisfaction.”

 

Thenvunin swallows, before he goes all stern again.

 

“...Fine.”

 

Not so dull after all, Uthvir thinks, as they smirk and let the commander go off to soothe himself in the company of Sylaise’s other followers. His ego is only slightly bruised, they think, and the flush in his cheeks lingers for quite a few moments after their impromptu dueling ring has been turned back into a range of dart boards. They keep one eye about him as they mingle through the rest of the guests, and return to the task of making certain everything goes perfectly.

 

A few times, they let him catch them looking.

 

Just once, they see the colour suffuse his cheeks again, before he swiftly turns his head and marches straight out onto a nearby balcony.

 

They are strangely charmed. Or amused. Either way - it seems Thenvunin is more interesting than they might have guessed.


	2. Chapter 2

Thenvunin braces himself for another luncheon with Uthvir.

 

It is an experience that requires bracing, of course. The recklessly lewd hunter has been trying to get under his armour since their very first meeting, and has employed all manner of deviousness towards that end. Thenvunin cannot even recall the last time he had lunch with them and they actually bothered to __dress appropriately__  for the occasion. Most often he arrives to find them lounging in some… some _flimsy robe _,__  or nearly-transparent dress, or other garment that they will insist upon calling ‘relaxed attire’, and that Thenvunin knows full well is meant as an article of seduction.

 

It is not entirely ineffectual.

 

If one is interested in that sort of thing, of course. Thenvunin himself has _never_ been the type to take advantage. Uthvir can lounge around in whatever fashion they like. The effort is thoroughly wasted on him, and it really is chore to have to clear out so much of his schedule in order to make time for these luncheons. And of course, the subsequent duels.

 

But it would be impolite to decline.

 

Thenvunin regards his reflection in the hall mirrors outside of Uthvir’s chambers. There is, of course, the question as to __why__  Thenvunin, in that case, continues to have lunch with Uthvir.

 

The answer is, of course, that he has very few opportunities to hone his fighting skills against less-than-honourable opponents. Andruil’s hunters have a desperate and overwhelming style of fighting, which can make them dangerous sparring partners. But they are frequent participants in various tournaments and championships. Thenvunin would do his Lady discredit if he did not seize the opportunity to better his skills at combating them in particular. Uthvir might be motivated by base impulses, but they have no idea that they are playing right into Thenvunin’s own hands.

 

He rings the chime to announce his presence.

 

“Come in!” Uthvir calls.

 

With another bracing breath, Thenvunin opens the door.

 

Sure enough, the hunter is sitting at their usual table. Their apartment is a respectable size, but done in the ‘style’ typical of Andruil’s people - lots of trophies, lots of cushions, and an incomprehensible layout. Uthvir has a perfectly good balcony which they almost never use, preferring instead to dine on cushions and a low table, even in the middle of the day. Thenvunin closes the door behind himself, and raises an eyebrow at the silky red robe they are wearing. At least it is _covering_  their figure. Draping over them in slashes of dramatic red, that make their skin look warmer than usual. Their hair is long and loose, and they have an ample lunch tray set out.

 

At the very least, over time they seem to have somehow divined Thenvunin’s favourite foods.

 

They give him a very blatant once-over.

 

“What a pretty suit,” they tell him.

 

Thenvunin raises a finger to his high collar, and straightens it out, before marching firmly towards his seat.

 

“At least one of us is considerate enough to dress appropriately,” he sniffs.

 

Uthvir grins, and sits up to begin pouring their drinks.

 

“You and I simply have differing ideas of appropriateness,” they insist. “One might take offence at a friend dressing so formally for a casual lunch. But, I prefer people to be at their comfort - _whatever_ makes them feel comfortable.”

 

They leer at him as they hand him his cup. Thenvunin rolls his eyes.

 

“We are _not_  friends,” he reminds them.

 

“One of these days, you will forget to correct me, and then it will be official,” they tell him, unperturbed. The light wine they have given him is delicious, at least. Thenvunin sips it, and starts filling his plate from the offerings at the table, as Uthvir does the same. They fold their legs but keep their back straight, heedless of the way their flimsy robe rides up onto their thighs as they fill a bowl with some of the more savoury offerings, and then pour two glasses of water as well.

 

“You know, I heard a rumour this morning that there was a skirmish between some of Sylaise’s forces and a few of Falon’Din’s goons, out in the crossroads. For a moment I was almost concerned you might have been involved.”

 

Thenvunin raises his eyebrows.

 

“How insulting,” he replies. “To fight fellow members of the empire is disgraceful. I would never betray my Lady’s trust by engaging Falon’Din’s forces.”

 

Uthvir shrugs.

 

“I had assumed that Falon’Din’s people were the aggressors,” they say.

 

Thenvunin almost swallows his tongue. Of course; the particulars of the incident were not widely known, and equally obviously, Uthvir had been fishing for some. Which Thenvunin had just carelessly divulged. Not that Splendour’s misstep will not become widely known at _some_  point, but it is no business of Andruil’s people.

 

“Even should they be the aggressors,” Thenvunin says, attempting a recovery. “My first instinct would be withdrawal, to report the matter and await further instructions. In such a case, it would be all the more reason to follow protocol, to ensure that there was no confusion over blame.”

 

Uthvir grins at him.

 

“Of course,” they permit. Drat them. “I realized it was foolish almost as soon as the worry came to me. You are enjoying your respite in the city, after all - there would be no reason for you to be in that position at all.”

 

He tries not to grit his teeth at the reminder of his ‘respite’. A delicate rebuke from Lady Sylaise, over his failure to apprehend several Nameless Raiders along the coast. His missed opportunity was another field commander’s potential gain. Despite having it all phrased as a necessary break from duties that must __surely__  be taxing his laudable skills, Thenvunin is well aware that if his ‘temporary’ replacement should prove more successful, his post will be lost to the other elf. And losing that post endangers his rank.

 

“Yes, well. I still lead patrols, so on that front, you were not being as unreasonable as you assume,” he insists.

 

“Oh yes,” Uthvir says. “And how have your patrols been?”

 

“That is not a matter I am at liberty to discuss,” he reminds them.

 

They grin, and sip their wine. But then they do, at least, move the conversation on to other topics. The weather. The upcoming festivals. What events Thenvunin might be attending. If he received their invitation to the mid-winter feast, and if he is planning to come, and if they might duel there. Thenvunin can __hardly__  decline when his reputation - and another opportunity to hone his skills - is on the line.

 

By the end of lunch, Uthvir’s robe is barely covering anything, and the room is __far__  too warm. Thenvunin blames it on the wine. And perhaps a few other things that need not be named, and should not be taken to Uthvir’s credit.

 

They lounge back against their cushions, and give him another long look-over.

 

“So,” they say.

 

“I have to go,” Thenvunin announces, stiffly. He stands up, and ignores their _snickering_  - sometimes he wonders if half their ‘seduction’ efforts are really just an elaborate form of mockery - and straightens his clothing out, before offering a very curt bow.

 

Propriety, after all.

 

“Thank you for lunch,” he says.

 

“Of course, of course,” Uthvir replies, waving nonchalantly. “Any time. Oh! And before you go, I should mention - my Lady is opening a new bath house in the upper districts. Your own afforded her some space for it, nearer to the Council Building, for the sake of convenience. It is nothing too elaborate but there is an opening ceremony planned, and some of the baths have interesting additives. If you feel a need to relax that ramrod spine of yours, you are more than welcome to attend the opening as my guest.”

 

Thenvunin’s lip curls, and embarrassed heat sinks straight through him. Oh, they _would_  invite him to _bathe _.__

 

“I shall check my schedule,” he replies, for the sake of decorum.

 

“I will send a formal invitation, in that case,” Uthvir tells him. Trapping him - unless Thenvunin actually does have something scheduled, now, he will have to attend, and the odds of him being slated for another event are fairly low.

 

Though he supposes he could always _find_  something else to attend at the same time...

 

Not that he appreciates the hassle, and it may not even be worth trying. Uthvir can be persistent. They seem determined to see him with his clothing off. At least a bath house is crowded; perhaps such a thing will satiate their curiosity, in a venue that will at least afford Thenvunin some security.

 

He will have to think it over in earnest, now.

 

With a nod, he makes his way out of the hunter’s lair. Attempting to banish the mental image of their slender, bare legs from his mind, until he is back upon Arlathan’s streets again.


	3. Chapter 3

By their typical standards, and considering that he is obviously attracted to them and that they have routinely served themselves on up a silver platter to him, it takes Uthvir a shockingly long time to actually bed Thenvunin.

 

After an intriguing encounter at the public baths, and several more months of luncheons and sparring, Uthvir finally concludes that they are going to have to take a different tactic. They spent their last luncheon practically __in__  the commander’s lap, eating berries and reciting poetry for an hour, and he still left without so much as copping a feel. Albeit with a slightly awkward gait that assured Uthvir, much like his tented towel at the baths, that he is not _immune_  to some of their overtures.

 

Nor did he seem disinterested, given his ready willingness to engage with them. So, they can only conclude that their approach has been wrong - that they are lacking something.

 

And they suspect it might be ‘an excuse’.

 

“How do you feel about wagers?” they ask Thenvunin, at their next occasion. Andruil - or rather, one of her more favoured attendants - is hosting a small tournament, and given his recent successes in the ring, Thenvunin has been obliged to attend. Uthvir themselves would actually have not been obligated, but they could hardly pass up on an occasion to show off. They are wearing a silver gown this evening, with ruby accents - coincidentally a near-match for the commander’s gleaming armour. They settle a hand into the crook of his elbow, and watch his lips thin and his eyes dart about the room. As if they are somehow illicit lovers, and he is worried over causing a scandal.

 

Uthvir wonders if they should tell him that most hunters in Arlathan already consider it a forgone conclusion that Uthvir has bedded him.

 

“I find them to often be _suspect,”_ he declares. “Why? Are you thinking of placing a bet on the next match?”

 

They tap their chin in playful contemplation.

 

“Only if the next match is between you and I,” they say. “I have been thinking we should spice things up. It never does well to let __strenuous__  activities become too _rote _,__  one might say. After a while many pairs find a need to introduce some more creativity to their interactions. Much as I like the typical thrusting and jabbing and parrying of our bouts, I am beginning to crave an actual culmination of some sorts. A prize for all that sweaty, straining effort.”

 

Thenvunin’s aura tightens in around himself. But his face goes very, very red, and it takes a long time for Uthvir to actually get a response out of him. Mostly they just get the lemon face, and a sharp look, and then some gesturing. Which eventually culminates in a single, sharp __smack__  to the back of the hand they have in the crook of his elbow. Not with enough actual force to __hurt,__  though.

 

Their lips twitch.

 

“What was that intended to be?” they ask him, unable to keep the laughter from their voice. It is a genuine question, in fact. But Thenvunin just glowers sternly, and looses a tremendous sigh.

 

“You are __incorrigible,”__  he accuses.

 

“And you are very tense,” they retort, giving his arm a squeeze. “What do you say? Let us take the edge off. I fear I neglected to bring any armour, but if you strip down we should make things even again. And if you win, I will let you spend some of that pent-up frustration of yours in whichever orifice of mine you prefer.”

 

Thenvunin’s aura remains quite tightly leashed, but the sound that escapes him at their proposition is not terribly intelligible. The tone veers towards outrage, but also a definite _squeak _,__  until he swallows it back.

 

“As if I would prize such a thing!” he snaps. “What a lewd and presumptuous offer. Really, Uthvir, no wonder people think you are too free with your favours.”

 

They chuckle at him.

 

“Is that your way of declining?” they ask.

 

His mouth snaps shut, at that. They are almost surprised that he does not back down. He had done so in the baths, when their hands had wandered. They recollect it with surprising clarity, considering how simple the moment actually ended up being. Underneath all that armour Thenvunin has a quite lovely figure. Atypical, but very appealing. Uthvir had ‘helped him wash’, and kept their touches relatively innocent, until finally opting for a bold move and curling a hand over his backside. The rush of arousal that had garnered had been fleeting… but memorable.

 

Thenvunin had left in a hurry, however. With a rebuke sharp enough that Uthvir had wondered if he would wash his hands of them, then.

 

But now he is clearly debating something. They wait, content to be patient. They have managed this long at it, after all, and eventually, the commander clears his throat.

 

“I hardly expect you to offer up a prize for my victory without expecting one in the event that _you_  should win,” he says.

 

Uthvir considers pressing the point that he is apparently interested in them. That is the closest he has come to a verbal admission, but, they suspect it would drive him off. So they refrain, and instead hum contemplatively.

 

“What do I get if __I__  win, you mean?”

 

“Yes,” Thenvunin tersely replies.

 

They draw it out a little. Making a show of considering their option. Mostly because it does seem to be making him hot under the collar, if they have learned to read anything about him by now. But after a few moments, they take pity, and decide to cut to the chase. Leaning up, and in close, they angle themselves to whisper in his ear.

 

“If I win, then I get to fuck your pretty ass until I come inside you,” they decide.

 

A sharp rush of arousal escapes Thenvunin’s control. Just for a moment, before he reels it back in again.

 

“How gratifying,” they murmur.

 

“It was _reflexive,”_ Thenvunin snaps, bristling. He shrugs their hand off of him, then, and for a moment Uthvir’s mood tumbles towards disappointment. Have they read things wrong? Will he turn them down? They cannot say that they had hoped for that conclusion. But rather than stalking off in an offended huff, Thenvunin glowers at them for a moment, and then takes another swift look around at the party goings-on.

 

“You are to tell _no one_  of the stakes,” he informs them.

 

Uthvir blinks.

 

And then it is their own turn to fail to contain a tide of excitement, potent enough to take them by surprise, too. Thenvunin’s blush darkens, and they decide not to bother with any attempt to disguise it again - instead they merely restrain themselves to a polite level of self-expression, and smirk unabashedly up at the commander.

 

“I hardly see why anyone else would need to know,” they agree, easily enough.

 

Though they would not be surprised if anyone with eyeballs were to be able to _guess_. Thenvunin swallows. They watch his throat bob, oddly taken aback by the way his mouth trembles, for just a moment. A vulnerable expression, there and gone again so quickly that they might have imagined it. He glances at them, and his expression is much more customary then - a frown.

 

“In that case, I accept your challenge,” he says, in the most clipped and inhibited tone he could have possibly managed, before stalking off. His manner says ‘man headed for the gallows’, while his speed implies a certain incongruous eagerness.

 

Uthvir’s lips twitch. Their stomach does an unexpected flip. They get a better handle on themselves as they follow Thenvunin to the sparring ring he seems to have decided upon. He scarcely looks at them as they set the match up, and when they go to change into some leggings, he deliberately makes his way to a different modesty alcove. When he asks for weapons, though, Uthvir grins at him.

 

“Fists?” they suggest.

 

Thenvunin’s scowl deepens.

 

“What?” they ask, innocently. “You have the advantage at that, do you not?”

 

“As if you are not just-” he hisses, before catching himself, and biting off whatever accusation he was about to make. Uthvir’s best guess would be at their ‘inappropriate’ desire to grope him. But they only grin, and incline their head, and watch his cheeks darken a little.

 

He accepts the terms, despite his apparent reservation.

 

In truth, though, Uthvir likes seeing him in his sparring clothes. There is something rare and pleasant about witnessing a Thenvunin out of his armour. Almost as if he might get a little closer to being out of his _shell,_  too. They exchange formal bows, and draw, as usual, a small crowd of interested onlookers as they take up their positions. Uthvir appoints one of the servants as judge, and does not bother to keep the anticipation out of their countenance.

 

Thenvunin remains rigid - in the not-fun way.

 

“If you wish to withdraw, now would be the time,” he tells them.

 

“Likewise,” they respond.

 

There a moment of respectable delay. When neither of them makes a move to leave, they settle into their stances. The servant gives the signal, and Uthvir opts not to let Thenvunin make the first move. They have learned that they will generally be left waiting a long time if they do that.

 

The commander seems to be expecting a good deal of aggression from them, if the way he braces himself is any indication, though. He flows with their movements, proving his surprising flexibility again, and does an admirable job of avoiding their blows. But not their grip, it seems. Uthvir nearly gets him pinned in record time, to their delighted surprised, before their curiosity rises up, and they give him an opening to retaliate. Thenvunin takes it, but slower than he ordinarily would. His breaths speed up in their ears, and up close, they can feel a certain heat simmering in his skin.

 

Uthvir draws the fight out. If they were fighting in earnest, they think, they would have gotten Thenvunin at his odd delays and hesitations long before the match’s actual end. They have fought him like this before, and they were not lying when they mentioned his advantage. Thenvunin is big, broad, strong, and quicker than he looks - Uthvir requires a certain amount of __range__  in order to beat him, normally. His reach is much better, and his muscles are not for show. But this evening, it is very clear who is lagging and who is not. Even with the few test-advantages they give him, Thenvunin scarcely puts up a real fight.

 

It is a __show__  fight, and Uthvir cannot resist the little growl that escapes them when they finally get him pinned.

 

Oh, the implications.

 

Thenvunin swallows, and avoids their gaze as he makes the gestures of concession. The hunters watching cheer, and a few tokens exchange hands. Some grumbling is involved. Uthvir loosens their hold, but takes advantage of their proximity to lean in close before they get up.

 

“Well, well,” they hum. “Despite all odds, I win.”

 

Thenvunin swallows.

 

“Get off me,” he demands.

 

“Come now, Thenvunin. It was a fair fight, no need to be a sore loser,” they say, more audibly, and obligingly stand. He accepts their hand up, for propriety’s sake, but lets it go hastily. Uthvir is not entirely certain what to make from his behaviour. If they are meant to follow him, or give him some space. He agreed to the wager, they had nothing to actually press him into it with. Not socially, nor psychologically, nor physically.

 

If he does not want them, he would have no reason to act as though he does.

 

In the end Uthvir decides to delay only enough to keep rumours from becoming certainties, before they head back home. Sure enough, they find Thenvunin waiting for them in their chambers. Sitting so rigidly on some of their cushions that they could easily take him for a statue.

 

Uthvir sighs at him.

 

“Oh, _relax,_  Thenvunin,” they request. “I will not hold you to the wager if you dread my touch so fearfully.”

 

Thenvunin gives them a sharp glance. He looks flushed enough that they might have guessed he had gotten started on things without them, but for the fact that he is fully dressed, and has his hands to tightly folded that it looks painful.

 

“I am a man of my word,” he says, lifting his chin. “My integrity is more important than anything.”

 

“I thought you might say that,” Uthvir replies, breezily. They set aside their coat, and pull off some of their jewelry. And stretch out a kink in their neck, before making their way over to one of the cabinets in their apartment’s social room. Thenvunin tracks their movements, as they open it up, and carefully select a bottle of wine.

 

“What are you doing?” Thenvunin demands.

 

They glance at him.

 

“You did not think I would just bend you over a table and go at you like an animal, did you?” they ask. His lips thin, and his gaze moves to the wine. He declines to answer them. They sigh.

 

“To loosen things up,” they explain, carrying it over, along with a pair of clean glasses. They hand it all to him, and then reach up, and undo the fastenings of their dress. Thenvunin makes a choked sound as the silvery material slinks to the floor. Uthvir snorts at his scandalized expression, then smirks at the colour in his cheeks, before they flop down onto their cushions. They stretch out, and when it seems that Thenvunin is neglecting things, reach over to open the bottle of wine themselves. They pull the cork free with their teeth, before they pour out two healthy glasses. The vine is one of June’s, in fact. Fiery, and known for its encouragement of libido. The alcohol level is fairly low, too.

 

“Stop looking so __alarmed__ , you have seen me naked before,” they point out.

 

He gives them a stern glare.

 

“At the bath house,” he says, in a tone meant to apply that Uthvir’s nudity _at home_  is somehow less appropriate. Then he swallows, and they would swear that they can see him recollecting the bath house. And all that had gone on in it. He shifts in his seat, and after a moment, reaches for one of the glasses of wine.

 

He knocks it back with concerning speed.

 

“So,” Uthvir ventures, after a moment more. They tap a finger to the rim of their glass. “Has it been a long time, since you bedded someone?”

 

Thenvunin nearly chokes on his drink.

 

“That is __none__  of your business!” he insists, glaring. And then looking swiftly away again.

 

Uthvir offers a placating gesture.

 

“I meant no offense. Simply for reference,” they say. “You seem… tense.”

 

He goes silent for a long, awkward moment. Holding his wine glass and glowering at the cushions, still fully dressed, as Uthvir lounges and contemplates the silence in return. Strange, how they almost find themselves hesitant, too. Perhaps it has been such a long flirtation that there is now more weighing on the possible culmination?

 

But they find their overriding sentiment is still eagerness.

 

At length, Thenvunin clears his throat, and settles an empty glass onto their conversation table.

 

“It has been… that is, I have been occupied with other things, the past few hundred years,” he says.

 

Uthvir almost boggles.

 

__Hundred?_ _

__

__Few__  hundred?

 

__Uthvir__  is a few hundred years old.

 

They nearly blurt that out, but manage to bite it back at the last moment. It hardly matters, and it would be liable to make things awkward. Instead they finish off their own wine with a fortifying swig.

 

“Small wonder you are so tightly wound,” they say instead, and get to their feet. Thenvunin tenses again, and they consider him for a moment. What an odd arrangement of conflicting signals this man is. When they reach out, he swallows. But Uthvir only takes a moment to brush some of the hair back from his face. His skin is soft. They already knew that. Up closer, they can smell lavender on his hair - he had not smelled like that when they fought him. And his clothing is different too, they realize.

 

He left in a hurry to _bathe_  and _change _.__

 

Well.

 

It would be inconsiderate to be less accommodating.

 

“Let me do some washing up,” they request. “You can undress and wait for me in my bed, hm?”

 

They think it might be fun to undress him themselves, but… easy does it, they suppose. Thenvunin takes what could only be described as a fortifying breath, and without verbal reply - and barely a nod - he marches off to their bedchamber. Uthvir has not shown it to him before, despite several invitations. Fortunately, there is not much he could get into trouble with in there either, so they head for the alcove where they keep their wash basin. Not nearly as accommodating as a full bath, but they do not want to head down to the communal one in their building, and it will suffice for a good scrub down. They clean away any lingering sweat from the day, and make certain they are reasonably pleasant, before drying off and heading for the bedroom.

 

Their sense of anticipation feels… different, than normal. Even when they had been with Andruil, there had been a certain edge to things. A fear, perhaps, of not meeting her expectations or of… of, encountering her in the wrong mood. Not that Uthvir begrudged their Lady her need to vent, of course. Andruil’s responsibilities are great, and so are the stresses they bring, and Uthvir had made many errors in their early days. Costly ones, that had sent them from her side in the end.

 

They banish the thoughts away. This is different, and of course it is. Andruil is on a separate level from most others. Thenvunin, though, is quite plainly on Uthvir’s own level.

 

They are still not entirely prepared to walk into their bedroom and find him both nude _and_  lying entirely face-down on their cushions. Of which there are many. Uthvir pauses, and takes in the sight. Long limbs spread out. Muscular back clearly displayed. Legs slightly spread, and fit, round buttocks bared in the middle of their bed. The gauzy canopy curtains filter the soft light from the ceiling, and cast some splashes of red across Thenvunin’s skin.

 

They swallow, and after a moment, let their interest in the scene before them suffuse the room. Closing the door behind them with a soft _click,_ they make their way over to the bed. Thenvunin has most of his face hidden in the cushions. Uthvir trails a hand down his back.

 

He shivers.

 

“Eager?” they wonder.

 

As they had hoped, it prompts him to look up so that he can glower at them.

 

“Are you going to talk throughout all of this?” he asks them, sharply.

 

They shrug.

 

“Not if you dislike it,” they allow, with a twinge of disappointment. He reacts so _dramatically_  to their blunt talk, they had been hoping to see how it might affect him in bed. But Thenvunin just sniffs, and nods in confirmation, before shoving his face back into the cushions.

 

They feel another twinge of disappointment.

 

No face either, hm?

 

“Get on with it,” he says.

 

Uthvir frowns.

 

“How enticing,” they drawl. “I can scarcely imagine why no one has fucked you for several centuries.”

 

Thenvunin rears back up again, at that, bristling anew.

 

“I am not here to be _enticing,”_ he informs them. “I am here because I lost a wager! And all that obligates me to do is let you - let you take what you have won. Do not misconstrue this!”

 

A jab of hurt shoots through them, and they take a step back, as if physically struck.

 

“Misconstrue…?” Uthvir swallows, and folds their arms across their chest. “What is there to misconstrue? You took the wager willingly, and I gave you __plenty__  of openings in that fight. I gave you everything you kept signaling a need for, you ridiculous man, a gave you an excuse, an opportunity, I offered myself up, and when you submitted I came ready to oblige… and now you are going to lie in my bed and accuse me of, what, precisely? _Forcing_  you to be here?”

 

Thenvunin blinks. Uthvir’s throat feels tight, and their face feels hot in a way quite separate of arousal, as they move to open the bedroom door again.

 

“There,” they say. “You can leave. It would hardly impugn your honour, when no one but myself even knows why you would be here in the first place. And I certainly do not have to stand here and listen to you impugn _mine.”_

 

Thenvunin gapes at them for a moment.

 

Uthvir supposes it is rather rare for them to lose their calm. They fall silent, arms folded again, and regard him coolly in return. _Nevertheless,_ they think. Nevertheless, they are not wrong, and while the sting of it may be surprising, they did not entice him here just to treat him like a convenient hole to stick themselves into, and he has no reason to act as if they have.

 

When he recovers, though, Thenvunin looks flushed and _annoyed._

 

“And I suppose this is what you are really after?” he asks, sitting up and folding his own arms in turn. “Getting me to humiliate myself? If I leave, then I renege upon our bet. If I stay, then clearly I am _eager_ for your ministrations, clearly I am just _asking_  for you to do whatever you plan to do to me-”

 

“You _know_  what I plan to do to you, I told you _exactly-”_

 

“Well I hardly intend to play into either one of your designs against my dignity-”

 

“How did any design if mine _force_  you to agree to a wager, you insufferable-”

 

“Do not dare attempt to degrade me further, the sheer gall of your conniving-”

 

“Conniving?! As if it takes any level of __con__  to get a man so willing to throw a wagered match to submit to the payment he _clearly_  desires-”

 

“How DARE you!”

 

Uthvir is not entirely aware of crossing the room, but at the outraged burst from Thenvunin, they suddenly realize that they are standing very close to him again. Close enough to see a few very, very pale freckles on the bridge of his nose. Close enough to feel the heat radiating off of him, to see the spark in his eyes as he attempts to stare them down.

 

And close enough to feel the lust escaping his aura, barely even disguised by the veneer of anger, and curling oddly towards something like _shame_  at the edges.

 

Uthvir stares down at Thenvunin, as he sits naked on their bed. Before he can get another word out, another insult or denial or insinuation, they take his chin in their hand, and kiss him fiercely. Nipping his bottom lip just enough to draw a droplet of blood, before licking the molten heat into his mouth. The feel him gasp, and feel arousal ripple up from him, as they devour him. Just a little. Just enough to make him shiver, to remind him how sturdy their grip can be, to demonstrate how igniting their touch might become. His lips are thin, and they can taste the clear gloss on them, along with the copper tang of blood.

 

When they pull back, their breaths are just a little bit shorter.

 

But so are his.

 

“Am I fucking you, or are you leaving?” they ask him, in a low, blunt tone of voice.

 

The sound of Thenvunin swallowing is audible. And up close, Uthvir cannot fail to see the wavering in his expression. That hint of vulnerability, just begging them for _something,_ they think. For some answer. Uthvir is not certain what it must be, but the threads of Sympathy still in their nature are plucked by it. They shift their grip, just enough so that they are cupping Thenvunin’s cheek rather than holding his chin.

 

Just as they are thinking that they will have to withdraw, and only beginning to form the disappointed sigh in their lungs, Thenvunin reaches up, and closes a hand around their wrist.

 

He lets out a breath of his own. And while he does not seem quite able to answer them verbally, he does lean back. By necessity pulling Uthvir to the bed with him as he goes; this time settling face-up, as they follow him down, and feel the brush of his bared skin against their own. His hair spills across their cushions. His chin tilts, but this time, it is not the customary gesture of affront or bravado - the move exposes the long line of his neck, and Uthvir takes the invitation. They trail kisses down the sensitive skin, and let their teeth linger tantalizingly over it. Letting him wonder if they will bite him; if they will draw his blood and ignite the subsequent magic to heighten his senses.

 

They do not. But sometimes the possibility is enough itself. He shivers again, and swallows.

 

They had touched him before, at the baths. Exploring some of his form, and admiring it. And they have grappled with him, have seen his muscles flex and watched him exert himself. Have flirted and taken his arm, or hand, or let a touch brush against his thighs. But the intensity is much greater like this, of course. Feeling his body against theirs steals their breath for a moment, as they settle over top of him. And the way he moves beneath them… it is tentative, at first, but as they press more kisses to his skin, he begins to _shift._  Exposing himself more to their touch, _offering_  himself more to it, but carefully, like a starved man adjusting to the first real food he has had in weeks.

 

Uthvir treads with obliging consideration, even when they feel his arousal begin to poke distinctly at their hip.

 

“Are you _certain_  I cannot speak?” they ask him, in between kisses.

 

Thenvunin sighs.

 

“It is hardly as if I can stop you from saying lewd things,” he mutters.

 

Uthvir chuckles.

 

“Is that how you give permission? By saying you cannot stop me?” they wonder. Because he could stop them, and they suspect he knows he could. He _must_  know, they have not kept it much of a secret.

 

The question summons an aggravated groan.

 

“Oh will you just get on with it?” he demands. Which they do  _ _know__  is his way of saying ‘yes’, at least.

 

“Bossy, bossy,” Uthvir tsk’s, but they suppose it will do. They can experiment with dirty talk next time, they think. And they do not really bother to question their assumption of a ‘next time’. Not yet, anyway. The moment is too full of Thenvunin’s nearness, and skin, and scent for them to bother. His hair is silky soft and thick beneath their fingers, and his chest is wonderfully broad. Such a big, strong elf to have at their mercy.

 

They think they like this.

 

They think they like it __a lot.__

 

When some of the tension has at last started to leave him, Uthvir retrieves the necessary supplies from their bedside drawer. At least they can see his face this way, so even if they cannot whisper filthy praise and promises, they can see his expression when they finally thrust into him. Their own arousal is evident by now. Thenvunin’s gaze lingers on it, before darting up to their eyes, and then swiftly away again.

 

…Oddly endearing.

 

“Nervous?” they ask.

 

_“Uthvir,”_ he snaps, as if bedroom courtesy is somehow reprehensible.

 

“For such a reputable man, you certainly dislike civility,” they note, as they pour a liberal helping of oil into their palm. Well within his line of sight. It makes him squirm a little, but he does not try to move his legs, either. Uthvir supposes they have teased him enough. A fervency comes over them, then, equal parts mischief and dominance, and they manhandle him with deliberate firmness again. Drawing a startled - and gratifying - gasp from him, as they spread his legs, and make use of his flexibility to press them backwards. Lifting his hips, and working oil-slicked fingers towards their prize.

 

He wants uncivilized?

 

Uthvir can do uncivilized. After so much time spent sparring and wrestling and dueling, they know at least _some_  of his limits quite well. A fresh rush of arousal escapes Thenvunin’s restraint as they nearly fold him in half, keeping his legs out of the way while they blunt their nails, and work him open. They alternate the necessary slow, careful movements with the occasional smack to the sides of his cheeks, and every so often, they pause to lengthen their nails again. Teasing them up his twitching cock, and drawing a few lines of blood from his thighs. When they mix the blood with their oil-coated fingers, and work it inside of him, they whisper one of their better spells.

 

It is a good stimulant; but they still are not expecting the strangled sound that escapes him to be accompanied by his cock spending itself, the culmination abrupt and messy as it spills across his thighs.

 

Uthvir blinks.

 

Thenvunin covers his face with his hands.

 

_“Don’t,”_ he preempts them, with a crack in his voice that gives them pause, again.

 

Then curl their fingers inside of him, though, and that distracts him from the unpleasant embarrassment leeching into his aura. Uthvir hardly _minds,_  on balance. He did say it has been a long time, after all.

 

“Come as many times as you like,” they assure him. “We are not playing _that_  sort of game, after all. Though we could, if you prefer. I have a fair few cock rings, I am certain at least one would fit that pretty length of yours, even when it is all flushed and full and begging for relief.”

 

Thenvunin makes a sound of complaint, and opts to cover his face with a cushion for several moments.

 

Uthvir raises their eyebrows at him when he finally sets it aside, pausing in the festivities.

 

“Stop _talking,”_ is all he says, though.

 

They file the cock rings away for ‘another time’ as well, and internally decide to see how many times they can make him come without putting a hand directly on his cock instead. So far only one, but they do wonder if they can get him to do it again, as they spread their fingers inside of him.

 

It takes a longer time than usual to get him to loosen up. Alas, Uthvir does not find any sticks lodged up there, either. Just hot, soft flesh, yielding to their touch. Easing, bit by bit, until Thenvunin actually makes further strides himself to relax those muscles. They use a little more magic and a lot more oil to help things along, until his cock is hard again, and his bottom lip is trapped between his teeth. And then they move their hands to his thighs. Shifting him around so that his position is more relaxed, too, before they finally line themselves up with his entrance.

 

They go easy, for the first strokes. It is harder than they expected. Inside, he is slick and hot, flexing deliciously around them. But the picture he presents is what it really doing them in. Making them want to _growl,_  making them want to _thrust,_ biting and claiming, kissing and caressing and oh so many other things. What a wealth of surprises and contradictions this man is. The breathy little sound that escapes him the first time they hilt themselves in him, followed by the way he bites the back of one fist to try and swallow it back down, nearly undoes their restraint.

 

They manage to hold back for a few more strokes, though. Just until the going is assuredly easy, and then they start to pick up the pace. Watching his cock bob against his stomach, and his expressions twist away from his usual sneers and stoicism. Every sound they wring from him feels like a victory. The way he submits is sublime, and they want more of it. All of it. They want him to come undone, to cry their name, to beg for their touch, and to come and come and _come._

 

He obliges them only in small rations, though. Biting back most of his sounds, and moving only where they move him. He only barely rocks his hips to meet theirs, but the rush of lust that intensifies with they dig their claws into his thighs is unmistakable. And they are not even halfway to their own completion when he _does_  come again, a curse flying out of his mouth as their vigorous motions send his seed all but flying.

 

Watching a droplet of it land on his face sends a shock of heat through them, in turn. Scorching and urgent, and prompting a sharp, inward thrust that startles another gasp from him.

 

Uthvir has to bite their tongue to keep from saying anything.

 

But it gives them an idea. An utterly, utterly _wicked_  idea, thoroughly deserving of the reputation that Thenvunin has ascribed to them. And they find themselves in no mood to resist it, as they take him. They are not certain they will be able to pull it off, given the compelling heat around their cock. As their thrusts become more ragged, though, and Thenvunin’s hips start to shift again, and his own cock twitches - what marvelous recovery time, Uthvir finds themselves greedy for it - they manage.

 

Before they come, they pull out, and thrust sloppily against his skin. Angling their hips upwards to slide against the tender flesh of his balls, managing only a few more movements before the feel of his cock against theirs undoes them. They come onto his skin with a low, throaty groan. The pleasure shakes through them, strong enough to make their own thighs tremble. Their seed mingles with the mess already on Thenvunin’s stomach. An act that musters up renewed arousal from him, even as Uthvir slips into the pleasant aftermath of relief.

 

Their skin tingles, and their pounding heartbeat slows somewhat. They spread some of the mess across Thenvunin’s skin, before letting his legs free, and sliding up his body to steal another burning kiss from his bitten lips.

 

For a few moments, then, an unexpected sort of languid pleasantness seems to settle into the atmosphere. Thenvunin settles a hand against their back, and Uthvir’s kisses are lazy. Sealed slowly onto his lips, as they come down from a surprisingly potent release.

 

After a few moments, though, the commander starts to move away somewhat.

 

“I should… I should get cleaned up,” he says, unsteadily.

 

Uthvir settles a possessive hand onto his backside, and gives him a firm squeeze. Pairing it with a soft growl as they pull him close again. The wide, vulnerable look comes back into his eyes for a moment, as his cock presses against their hip, and they steal another kiss from his lips.

 

“Not yet,” they say.

 

“If I am going to make it back to my chambers…”

 

“Stay,” they tell him. And slowly, they let their lips curve upwards. “Remember the wager? What was my prize?”

 

Thenvunin shifts and gives them a __look.__  It somehow manages to say ‘how dare you try and make me discuss the anal sex we just had’.

 

“You got your prize,” he says.

 

“Ah,” Uthvir tuts. “The agreement was that I would fuck your ass and come inside you. And I fear, in my fervour, that I slipped out. So…”

 

Thenvunin’s eyes widen.

 

So does their smirk.

 

And this time, when he bats a hand against them, they do not feel any sting at all.

 

“You conniving sneak!” he hisses. “You did that on purpose!”

 

“Oh what a terrible accident,” Uthvir drawls, as their hands wander his figure again. “It seems as though we must start __all over again.__  What a busy night we shall have. It is good thing tomorrow is a rest day, hm?”

 

Thenvunin huffs, and then lifts up a cushion, of all things, and hits them with it.

 

“ _ _Fiend!__  " he says. “Salacious, deceitful, lustful… lustful _hunter!”_

 

And yet, Uthvir cannot help but notice - he makes absolutely no more attempts to leave.

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

“Your ears are cute.”

 

Thenvunin lets out a long, exasperated sigh, even as he feels something inside of him twist with a perilous kind of __warmth.__  They are just trying to get to him, he reminds himself. Three lost duels later, and they have become virtually __insufferable.__  Lounging against him, with their… with certain parts of themselves sheathed inside certain parts of __himself.__  The penetration stretching him, a hot, heated weight that presses him from within, as they trail a nail casually up the side of his ear.

 

“What are you _doing?”_ he huffs, and resists the urge to move his hips. His dignity is hanging by a thread as it is. If word got around to his peers in Sylaise’s army… well, some would not care, he knows. The younger ones especially. And a fair few would think twice of making an issue of it even if their opinion of him fell. And more still have always had their assumptions, owed to Thenvunin’s nanae and _their_ reputation. Melarue would probably tell him to just focus on staying safe, and offer to ruin Uthvir if he told them about all this. Or they would do that thing where they pat his wrist and tell him to _enjoy himself _.__  As if THIS is the sort of thing that Thenvunin enjoys.

 

He is hardly immune to stimulus, and he… is aware that he does possess certain proclivities.

 

But most of the time sex is far too harrowing to really _enjoy._

 

“Get on with it!” he insists.

 

Uthvir traces another touch up the side of his ear, and then nips it.

 

“I seem to recall that _I_ was the one who won our match. And I need to be careful, to make certain I actually come inside you, with no more… mishaps,” they remind him, smugly. Their hips shift downwards, just a little. Thenvunin’s breath catches as they press down deeper inside of him. But then, somehow, despite the rigidity he can most certain feel in them, they resist what must surely be an urge to start thrusting in and out of him again. Instead they hum and lean down against him. Nipping his ear, treating him more like a comfortable set of cushions than anything, while his own erection remains pinned beneath them both. All night they were at this, until Thenvunin lost count of… until he _passed out,_  is what happened. And now he is waking up in their bed, which smells like their terrible incense, and at least they seem to have done him the courtesy of cleaning all that - that mess up. But he is still beholden to their accursed wager.

 

This is _torture._

 

“I like being inside of you,” Uthvir whispers. Voice husky and low and unreasonably possessive _ _.__  A note they emphasize by slinking their arms around him, and digging their nails into him. Just a little. Thenvunin swallows as the sensation seems to sink through him, and his already frustrated arousal is further teased. He hisses at them to stop talking, or tries to. It does not come out as intended, however, the sound wavering too much, turning almost towards a warble of complaint that makes him sound more like a distressed bird than an authoritative commander. Uthvir snickers at him - the __menace__  - and teases the sensitive skin of his ear with a few more nips from their teeth. And lewd whispers from their lips.

 

“You are such a good fit for me. Who would have imagined?”

 

“Such an obligingly round and firm backside. Perfect for this sort of thing.”

 

“I think I could rest here all day, given half a chance. Just warming my cock inside of you.”

 

“Unless, of course, there was something you wanted me to do…?”

 

He feels them grin against the skin behind his ear.

 

_“Uthvir,”_ he finally protests.

 

To his shock, upon the scolding, their hips move abruptly. Slanting backwards and thrusting into him again with an electric fervency, that startles a gasp from his lips. And draws a growl from Uthvir, so molten and low that it seems to reverberate straight through him and down to his loins.

 

“I like that,” they purr.

 

His skin heats all over, but though he braces himself, they do not begin moving again. It is back to the torture instead, even if their nails seem to be pressing more sharply now, and the feeling of their arousal in the air is far more… _intent._

 

Thenvunin takes in a fortifying breath.

 

__“Uthvir-”__  he tries again.

 

The second scolding has barely escaped him before it is met with another growl, and another thrust. They are doing something with their magic. What, he has no idea, but it is making their every move inside of him electrifying. He can only blame that for the sound he makes, a cut-off second word that somehow turns high and garbled and might, at length, be described as a _mewl._  But only by someone who was feeling particularly unflattering, Thenvunin is certain. It seems to provoke a second thrust from Uthvir, but no more. Again, they stop, and go back to lounging against him. Offering deliberately languid touches. Drawing it out, oh, they are just - just - !

 

“You are the _worst_ of creatures,” he insists, breathlessly. “Have you not had enough of me yet?”

 

Uthvir just chuckles. Holding him and moving their face up against his in something Thenvunin would never describe as _nuzzling._  It robs him of breath for a moment, though - all these awkward stops and starts are surely to blame, as his heart skips over, and they suck at the tip of his ear. His opposite ear twitches. All his nerves are set to tingling again.

 

“Do you think I could ever get you to beg?” they wonder.

 

_“No,”_ he snaps, swiftly. Cock aching and skin flushed, his grip tightening in the pillows around them. Absolutely not, not on their life, Thenvunin has his dignity and while it may be difficult to maintain when they are positioned thusly, he is going to do his level best all the same.

 

Uthvir just sighs, though.

 

“Pity,” they say. “I suppose I will have to make do with getting you to call for me.”

 

Thenvunin shifts himself just enough to swat at the side of their leg in irritation.

 

“I am __not__  calling for you, I am _telling you off,”_ he insists. Which should be obvious, but of course, they are far too insufferably smug and assured of their bedroom prowess to ever realize such a thing.

 

“Ah,” they say, with a hum. “That could work, though. You telling me off while I fuck you. Saying things like ‘you are not going fast enough’ and ‘bite my ass like you mean it’ and ‘you aren’t manhandling me properly’? Tell me to fuck you harder and I promise I will, my sweet _Commander.”_

 

Of all the - ! Thenvunin can scarcely fathom their sheer __gall.__  Their absolute nerve. If he wasn’t pinned to this bed and already hopelessly aroused, he is certain he would be put-off, and not fighting the urge to thrust his backside up against them. His face feels impossible hot, and the brush of Uthvir’s breath across his skin, as they say such _shameless_  things, is wreaking havoc with his nerves.

 

“Absolutely not,” he grits out.

 

And then he bites his lip to keep from saying anything else. Uthvir just hums at him, amusement drifting in amidst the heat and arousal of the atmosphere.

 

“I suppose I shall just keep at this, then,” they say. “I will probably run short of restraint sooner or later. Though it is nice, familiarizing myself with your ass. I hope to have it as often as possible.”

 

Thenvunin makes a strangled sound. His hips jerk, just a little - out of shock, of course - and the movement and weight against him and the sheer _heat_ is too much. To his horror he comes into the blankets. The pleasure low and slow, like Uthvir’s voice, and subtle enough that he holds out a moment’s vain hope that they will not have noticed. It _is_  beneath him, after all. In more ways than one. But his aura is crackling with the flare of culmination. Uthvir’s arousal thickens the air, bold enough to compensate for the dissipation of the aftermath. And Thenvunin knows his ill luck is continuing, by the way they growl and clutch him and radiate an appalling degree of self-satisfaction.

 

His mood sinks perilously close to humiliation.

 

Uthvir runs a hand up and down his side.

 

“Didn’t I say you could come as often as you like?” they tell him. “I wonder if I could talk you into it? Coming, I mean. Is that why you did not want to me speak? Does it make you come faster, Thenvunin, to have me talk about what I plan to do to you? All the ways I want to fuck you? There are a lot of ways. I have been thinking about it for months, but even last night, I was struck by whole new inspirations. I could tie you up. Would you have any interest in that? Strung up like a beautiful gift, too tight and secure to move. Suspended in the air, perhaps, or restrained in some… _convenient_ position. And do you know, it is tradition among hunters to give chase to their sexual partners? I could arrange for such a thing. You would be more than compelling prey, and when I caught you, I could take you up against the trees. Wild as you like. Biting your neck and fucking your ass and watching that pretty cock of yours bob between us. Or maybe I would take it myself, grind down on you and not stopping after you came, until you spent yourself so much inside me that you were delirious. Do you like toys? I could fuck you with one with I took you at the same time-”

 

_“Stop.”_

 

The demand flies out of him with far more pleading in it than he had intended. But it is too much, much too much, his dignity cannot take it and he has just spent himself, his body is beginning to ache in earnest, and his nerves feel rubbed raw by each suggestion. Arousal and sensitivity are beginning to react unpleasantly to the magic inside of him, and humiliation is starting to rear its head again. He presses his face to the pillow, and hopes Uthvir will at least be _quiet_ until they finish. Going rigid for a moment, as he forgets that he is strong enough to simply shrug them off.

 

Their weight lifts from his back, though. Uthvir rolls off of him. One hand settles on the back of his shoulder, surprisingly gentle.

 

“My apologies,” they murmur.

 

Thenvunin sucks in a shaky breath, and lets out it again.

 

“Just… give me a moment,” he requests.

 

Uthvir rubs his shoulder, and acquiesces with a murmur. Then they withdraw their touch, and settle beside him. Watching him, he thinks, until his breaths even out, and some of the conflicting sensations in him ease.

 

Then they get up.

 

He braces himself, an excuse ready on his tongue. But it curdles there before he can properly manage it. And Uthvir, rather than making a move towards him, sweeps up a robe from a peg beside the bed.

 

“I have been an appalling host,” they announce. “Here you have spent the whole night, and I have not even offered you breakfast. You must be famished. Let me just go and put something less scandalous on, and I will fetch a few things.”

 

Thenvunin swallows back a sigh of relief. He is not sure what Uthvir is up to __now,__  but their manner and tone, and the talk of hospitality and food, at least puts him on more even footing. Though his better judgement warns him to remain suspicious, he nevertheless finds himself relaxing a little. The bed is still warm and soft, after all, and the rush of release often makes him foggy-headed.

 

“Any requests?” Uthvir asks him.

 

He swallows, and sighs.

 

“Water and sweet buns?” he ventures, after a few moments.

 

They smile at him. Why they should, he has no idea, but it seems utterly unfair of them to look anything close to _sweet_ right now. When he knows full well how sharp those teeth really are.

 

“Certainly,” they tell him.

 

As they leave, Thenvunin tells himself, quite sternly, that he hopes this does not actually become a new habit of theirs.

 

 

~

 

 

“Make _certain_  you come inside me.”

 

The sentence is a sentence that Thenvunin actually _says._  And regrets. Immediately. He can only credit his lightheadedness, and the lingering shock of having lost __another__  duel, for the complete lapse in his judgement. Uthvir’s head shoots up from where they had been busily tying him to one of the fixtures in their chambers. The light catches in their eyes for a moment. If he were a more easily swayed sort, he might take note of how pretty a shade of brown their irises are.

 

They grin.

 

Thenvunin regrets his life choices.

 

“Why, Thenvunin-”

 

“Do not even begin!” he insists, as sternly as he is able to. Under the circumstances. His blood is still rushing south and his pants feel __far__  too tight, but he keeps himself from looking down, and nearly imagines that his dignity has not yet been compromised. He lifts his chin. “I only do not want a repeat of last time.”

 

Uthvir’s gaze widens in _utterly false and unconvincing_ ‘innocence’.

 

“Coming inside you was not part of the wager this time,” they point out.

 

…Damn them.

 

“Be that as it may. You still did not manage it since the last wager,” Thenvunin points out, stiffly. “And I will not let you leave it hanging over my head, to call upon whenever the whim strikes you. So you either get it done this time, or half your prize from the last match will be forfeit due to your own incompetence.”

 

At that, Uthvir’s expression slinks towards something much sharper. Thenvunin shivers, and the ropes in their hands whisper for a moment as they secure the last knot against their bedroom post. Their aura thickens with intent. Purely sexual, and potent enough to provoke another shiver from him.

 

“Well, well. I would not want you to think me _incompetent,”_ they purr.

 

Opening his mouth was a mistake.

 

Definitely, most assuredly, a terrible mistake. He feels the urge to do it again, he is going to have to stop himself somehow.


	5. Chapter 5

Uthvir is _determined_  to figure out how to get Thenvunin to loosen up in bed.

 

There has to be a way. The man clearly enjoys sex and is interested in having it, so it is not as if the entire concept is unappealing to him. They can read his attraction to them in his aura. It might have taken months for them to be reasonably certain, but his slip-ups have been consistent. And he has not rejected their interest, just nitpicked it and blustered over it a great deal. So, he is interested in sex, and interested in them, and interested in sex-with-them. And they have tried their best to outright ask, and failing that, _guess_  at what he wants them to do with him.

 

They have never had such a challenging partner before.

 

But even after a full year of ‘wagers’ and interludes, it still generally takes at least one sparring match, a few mouthfuls of wine, possibly a massage, and as much foreplay as they can manage to get him to do much besides lying there and trying to stifle his reactions. Their creativity in the bedroom has flourished, but he still seems perpetually… unsatisfied, somehow.

 

They actually do some reading on the subject. To mixed results. There are a lot of varied opinions on sex and romance in the empire, although it is a popular subject for literature. They do manage to find a book on the history of sexual culture among military elves. Fascinating stuff. The book is a few thousand years old, but that puts it around Thenvunin’s age - so, relevant. It talks mainly about Elgar’nan’s forces and the variations of attitudes among Peacekeepers, but a lot of the contents also apply to broader military standards.

 

This military sexual culture has some very peculiar ideas about positions and symbolism and things like that. Uthvir understands it fairly well, though. Among hunters, there is often a common perception of ‘predator’ and ‘prey’ in a relationship, and it can be similarly represented by symbolic actions. Who courts and is courted, who is on top, who puts what part into which orifice, and all sorts of things like that. But the Old Guard, as it were, seems to have taken these standards to ludicrous extremes.

 

Intrigued, they search their way through some further segments of Arlathan’s archives, and after about a month of on-and-off research, they manage to dig up a four-thousand-year-old book on military courtship.

 

Written by __Falon’Din.__

 

__Falon’Din__  wrote a courtship manual.

 

Uthvir stares at it in utter consternation for a solid ten minutes, after verifying that, yes, they read the authorial signature correctly. Somehow, without even opening the cover, the whole thing seems to exude a general sense of disquiet with its own existence. As if it knows that it is a Wrong Thing, but cannot possibly undo itself.

 

Uthvir is going to need something to dull their senses a bit for this, they decide. They take the tome home with them, and light some very relaxing incense. And when they start to feel a bit less inhibited and somewhat incapable of stress, they open up the manual, and begin to read.

 

If they had ever doubted their vague, distant assessment of the Evanuris of Death as a terrible lover, the manual erases it.

 

There are the usual conceits of courtship guides, of course. The importance of rank and influence, and the importance of physical prowess, and experience. They see some shades of the standards that are common among hunters, the notions of predator and prey couched in the only slightly-different terms of master and servant. But then the bizarre philosophizing starts to come into play, along with a heaping dose of ‘what will disqualify people for command positions’.

 

_Any who has been penetrated by way of force, should be considered inefficient in their strengths, and demoted._

__

_Any who has been penetrated by way of willing submission, should be considered unsuited in spirit, and removed from all forms of command or stewardship of military forces._

__

_To that end, it is the responsibility of whores in service of the empire to report the unsuitability of any who betray such weakness. Sufficient command requires the interrogation of whores as to the fitness of any elf to serve in duty, to be conducted at the end of each quarter-year…_

 

Uthvir has to stop reading for a moment, and break out some strong drink at that point.

 

Ew.

 

Not for the first time, they are infinitely glad to not be serving Falon’Din. They feel the inevitable swell of sympathy for those not lucky enough to escape the fate, before they calm down enough to keep on reading through the book.

 

Bizarre and unpleasant as the whole thing is, it __does__  explain a few issues, too. They have to check a few historical records to be certain, but despite Sylaise’s frequent efforts to refute her older brother’s authority and denounce his opinions, one of her chief commanders during her initial rise to the rank of General served formerly under Falon’Din. Saryldan. He had been platonically bonded to one of Mythal’s commanders, too, and had served Elgar’nan before being transferred to Falon’Din’s forces, which was probably why Falon’Din had been willing to part with him - too much potential for split loyalties. Saryldan is cited in the index of the courtship manual as a contributor.

 

The man himself has been dead for slightly longer than Uthvir has been alive. His spouse yet lives. Uthvir recognizes __her__  name, Lanthael, from among Mythal’s current commanders, and they are fairly certain it is the same person. The accomplishments and the rank all align, and it is not a terribly common name.

 

A search for more literature by Saryldan proves fruitful. Whilst Falon’Din was apparently content to limit himself to the lone manual, Saryldan seemed quite fond of his own opinions, and keen to immortalize them. And they seem to deviate very little from his former lord’s. There are times when he even skirts the edges of treason by implying the Lord June to be an insufficiently __virile__  lover to have ever won in combat against a Keeper, but he veers away at the last possible moment by citing it as a ‘rare example of magical potency providing authority not naturally gleaned from physicality or psychology’. Reading between the lines, though, Uthvir’s a little surprised the book has not been burned.

 

Then again, it is a very tedious slog to get through. So perhaps no one in a position to care ever actually bothered to reach page four-hundred and eighty-three.

 

That thought makes Uthvir pause, and wonder why _they_ have managed to reach page four-hundred and eighty three. Of the third book in a series, not including Falon’Din’s courtship manual, no less. They cannot say that they are __enjoying__  the experience, by any stretch of the imagination.

 

…But it does go some way towards explaining how a Field Commander raised by a famous clothier and an influential Pleasure District Manager could be so… so…

 

_Thenvunin-y._

 

Not that Uthvir is considering courting him, really. Fooling around, of course but…

 

Well.

 

…Maybe they are, though?

 

The idea, once it occurs to them, will not leave. They are reading books on _military courtship._  And yet, of course, that is only because they are trying to understand more about the social language of this particular imperial subculture. Very important research for any sort of manager or event coordinator or diplomat to engage in, and Uthvir has at times been all three of those things. They want to have _fun_ with Thenvunin, he is easy to poke and prod and cajole. So buttoned up and yet oddly expressive at times, too. And there is no reason, really, why emotions should stay out of it. _Uthvir_  is not repressed. They may not have technically engaged in any serious courtships before, but that is because their heart belongs to their Lady. They have never wanted to.

 

Do they want to now?

 

They consider it for a long while. Long enough that they almost lose track of the time, and have to hurry down to Sylaise’s public dining hall just to make it in time for their scheduled luncheon with the man himself.

 

The dining hall in question is one of the nicest in the mid-level districts. It is located next to a memorial garden, but though the theme may be somewhat somber, the atmosphere is usually lively. And the wisteria that grows plentifully over the memorial statues provides a colourful backdrop, heightened by the bustle of the nearby dining hall. Uthvir has to stop and exchange a few pleasantries at the entrance. Some high-ranking peacekeepers look to be on the way out, and it always pays to keep in their good graces. One of June’s event coordinators is there with her young daughter, and Uthvir gravitates somewhat closer, drawn in by curiosity at the short, growing figure at her mother’s side. But the girl is tired of attention, and Uthvir leaves them be after the typical polite exchanges of career rivals.

 

They find Thenvunin at his usual table near to the Memorial Garden wall. Watching several birds, with such a somber expression on his face that it takes them aback for a moment. Their steps falter. They are struck by the odd mingling of factors. How handsome he is. How unfair his eyes are, when weighted by any emotion apart from casual disdain. How bright he looks, and yet, how neatly penned in by the aesthetic standards of current trends - his hair is smoothed straight, and the shade of green he is wearing is pale enough to not test the boundaries of his rank. The cut of his clothing alludes to his line of duties, and the simple, unadorned circlet on his brow somehow emphasized the whorls of his Lady's markings.

 

The birds up above him, though, are a riot of colours. Pink and blue and vivid purple, decorations in and of themselves. Their eyes are somewhat glassy, in the fashion of hastily made constructions, though. And when they get closer, Uthvir notes that the little things seem to be at the end of their run. Their feathers are losing their sheen, and their flitting around the top of the wall is clumsy. Doubtless they will be replaced by the end of the week, then, swept out for some new decoration. Thenvunin will have to sneak treats to something else when he thinks Uthvir is not looking at him.

 

There is no food on the table, they note, as they get closer.

 

“Sorry, I was delayed,” they offer. Thenvunin blinks at them, and then goes all rigid in his chair. “Were you waiting long?”

 

“Longer than I would like to,” he says, pursing his lips unhappily. “Though I might hope you were beginning to lose interest in me. This is the third time you have been ‘delayed’ this week.”

 

“Perish the thought!” Uthvir assures him. “I have only been so consumed with anticipation of seeing you that I have failed to discern when the moment is near.”

 

They offer him a wink, and are gratified when he actually looks - for half a moment - flattered. His lips part and his eyes widen just a bit, before he shakes his head at them. When he makes to rise from his seat, though, Uthvir forestalls him.

 

“I will go and get us something,” they insist. “I am already up, and it is the least I can do.”

 

Thenvunin hesitates just for a moment, before subsiding back down into his seat.

 

“If you insist,” he agrees. “But see if they have any bee pollen. Sometimes they have it in tins near to the honey, I should like a bowl, if they do. Or raw berries, that would be good as well. Or sprouted seeds! If there any kitchen workers ask them for some!”

 

Uthvir blinks, taken aback by the odd request list.

 

“Anything else?” they wonder.

 

“No,” Thenvunin says, glancing back at the birds. Then he seems to catch himself, and pauses. “Er, I mean, apart from whatever dishes look best, obviously. But you hardly need my input on that.”

 

Again, Uthvir is almost taken aback.

 

“Careful, Thenvunin, that was perilously close to a compliment,” they quip. Throwing him a wink that makes him frown at them, they head off to see what they can find.

 

An odd list. Bee pollen and berries and sprouted seeds. They find themselves oddly determined to meet it, though, and so they do. They flag down one of the dining hall servers. There are no sprouted seeds, but there are some sprouts, and the bee pollen is not normally set out for luncheons. But Uthvir is presented with a small jar, along with a bowl of fresh, mixed berries, and the requested greens.

 

They set their acquisitions onto a tray, and then go about filling it with some more traditional lunch fare. Sweet things for Thenvunin and savoury for themselves. They carry it back out, only to be struck again by the sight of the dining companion. Staring sadly up at the little birds along the wall.

 

The lights goes off, at that.

 

Pollen, sprouted seeds, and berries… they suspect that if they were to investigate, they would find that these things are all very healthy food for birds.

 

They wonder if they should mention that these sorts of decorative animals are not made to last long. There would be no point in it. As soon as the fashions of the city changed, so too would the decorations of its public spaces, and re-homing a flock of small birds would be much more hassle than just disposing of them. So they are built to go out with the changing of the city’s usual aesthetic seasons. They doubt any amount of care could fix them.

 

But it seems a little late for that, and there would be nothing to gain by saddening Thenvunin any further, either. And perhaps the little dying birds will enjoy a feast of pleasantries, before they go. Uthvir offers up an observation on the weather, instead, before setting the tray down, and dropping into their seat.

 

They spend most of lunch providing the majority of conversation, and pretending not to notice that Thenvunin keeps levitating snacks up to the little birds every time they look down at their plate. They do note that some of the birds don’t even bother with the food - although a few do, hopping clumsily and letting out some melodic peeps as they indulge in it. By the time the pollen bowl is empty, a few are looking more energetic. Eagerly plucking some other treats up out of the tangling vines.

 

“Perhaps we should go for a walk through the garden?” Uthvir suggests, after the lunch plates are cleared, and the birds’ bowls are also emptied.

 

“Hm? Oh, certainly,” Thenvunin says, before Uthvir’s actual suggestion seems to register. They can tell when it does by the way he frowns, and then frowns deeper at their grin.

 

“That is-”

 

“Marvelous,” they say. “I have been reading the most interesting books these past few weeks, I must admit. Do you read, Thenvunin?”

 

They rise, and offer the commander an arm. He ignores it - Uthvir thinks they understand why a little better now - in favour of stiffly getting up himself, and brushing a few imagined wrinkles from his clothes. Then he folds his hands at his front, and Uthvir takes the hint, and keeps their own clasped behind them.

 

“I read,” Thenvunin permits.

 

They snort.

 

“I would hope so, at your rank and age,” they reply. “But what? Wait, let me guess. You have shelves upon shelves of tactical military philosophy? Field guides and manuals and the moralizing of historically pertinent wartime figures?”

 

The way Thenvunin’s expression does not even waver lets them know that they have missed the mark.

 

“Of course I own such things,” he says. “What career soldier does not? My duty to Sylaise bids expertise in my field, and I am dedicated to that end.”

 

They make their way to the archway that leads down into the garden. The statues look recently polished, and the fountains are bubbling brightly. A few other patrons seem to have taken advantage of the sunlight, and the woodsy-scented winds that are passing through the city from Andruil’s estate.

 

“But that is not what you would read for pleasure,” they surmise. They do not emphasize the word ‘pleasure’, but Thenvunin looks at them as though they have. Swallowing and narrowing his gaze, so that Uthvir almost wishes that it _was_  on purpose. Alas, though, memorial gardens are too inappropriate for stolen interludes, even by their standards.

 

Especially at mid-day. The wisteria makes the space feel private, but there really is not enough cover between any point in the garden and the main path to steal a moment or two.

 

Pity.

 

They will just have to settle for light flirting.

 

“I have little time for the frivolity of novels,” Thenvunin tells them, straightening his shoulders.

 

Uthvir raises an eyebrow.

 

“Oh,” they say. “Who mentioned novels? There are plenty of things one might read for the pure joy of it.”

 

Aha.

 

__There__  they are. Thenvunin’s expression twitches, and his brows sweep down in the sort of disapproval he genuinely seems to reserve for Uthvir guessing things correctly. His aura wavers with just the faintest hint of _something,_  but it is there and gone before Uthvir can rightly identify it.

 

“I mention novels only because they are the most inherently recreational of all books,” he insists. “And I have read a few, of course. Classics. Nothing for several centuries.”

 

“Another dry spell?” Uthvir asks, lightly.

 

Thenvunin’s cheeks darken.

 

“We are in _public,”_ he hisses at them, as his gaze darts to where a few others are walking along the paths. No one is actually paying them much mind, though. Uthvir can tell. And contrary to popular belief, that tone of voice actually carries __further__  than most normal conversation, and is far more conspicuous. But they decided not to mention that, as they turn and grin, and ready another quip.

 

Only to feel their hair tie slide off.

 

It is unexpected enough that it distracts them. They blink as their hair comes falling down around their face, and then look down. And sure enough, there it is, lying loose upon the path. They bend down to scoop it up.

 

“The enchantment must have died,” they say. They cannot feel any magic in the shiny piece of red ribbon, now. “Pity. That lasted me ten years.” It had been one of their favourites. Mostly because the magic on it was very good, even if the materials were not. Even when Uthvir’s hair was straightened, it could usually hold all of it in place for days.

 

With another sigh, and a shrug, they reach up to see if they can get it to work with a tighter knot anyway. Thenvunin watches them, and they take the opportunity to move a bit closer. Gathering up their hair, only for the tie to slip in their fingers, and let their hair go falling down again.

 

“Would you mind helping?” they request.

 

Thenvunin looks like he is on the verge of scolding them for something. But then his words seem to die on his tongue. And after a moment, he just huffs, and reaches over to take the tie from them.

 

“It will not work without magic,” he assures them. “Your hair is too soft, it will just slide loose. But I may be able to fix it anyway…”

 

He whispers a spell. Not grand enough to summon even a mote of light. Uthvir watches with interest, surprised at how deft it is. But when he goes to hand them back the tie, they move towards him instead. Close enough to feel his even his tightly-reigned emotions near to their own skin, as they indicate their hair.

 

“Please?” they request.

 

They are not sure if they are expecting him to oblige, or to scold them and chuck the hair tie away. But they are a little enamored with the way he manages to look _flustered_  over it, for a moment. As if they have not been in far more intimate and compromising positions before. He does reach for them, anyway. Much to their delight. Running his fingers through their hair, just a little - and perhaps just little more than is _strictly_ necessary. He secures their hair, before he clears his throat and takes a hasty step back.

 

“You should always check your articles in the morning, __before__  you set out with them,” he scolds.

 

Uthvir shrugs.

 

“Well, I was in a hurry,” they admit. “I did not want to miss our date.”

 

“Our _d-”_ Thenvunin begins, shocked, before cutting himself off and glowering at them. “We are most certainly not - this is not - it is not a _date!”_

 

“Of course it is,” Uthvir reasons. “Any meeting which one might schedule is technically a date. Or did you think I meant some other connotation of the term?”

 

His mouth snaps shut, and the disapproval in his features is matched only by the fetching pink in his cheeks.

 

“You know _full well-”_ he begins.

 

The sound of another voice, however, interrupts him. Calling his name from the main path, and seeming to jar them both out of the moment. Uthvir blinks, and feels as though they have somehow just been jolted unpleasantly from a bubble of intimate interactions that had formed between themselves and Thenvunin. Not officially nor deliberately, but thoroughly enough to feel like it ought to have, somehow, been inviolable.

 

But it is neatly and concisely broken by a smooth tone. At a distance, but not far off. They turn and see an elegant elf, dressed in clothing that denotes a high rank and influence, waving at the pair of them. Dark-hair, gorgeous features. Dressed in fashionable spring attire, that is lightweight and just on the left side of being inappropriately revealing. Their skirt is layered like a waterfall of petals, and their bracelets trail up their limbs in delicate, platinum whorls.

 

They have Sylaise’s markings on their face.

 

“Thenvunin!” they call, a second time.

 

Thenvunin looks utterly caught, for a moment. As if he and Uthvir had been discovered in passionate embrace, and not simply repairing a fallen hair tie.

 

“ _ _Nanae?”__  he gaps. “What are you doing here?”

 

Nanae.

 

Ah. So. This is Melarue, then. Uthvir has actually met them before, very briefly, at a few city functions. They had looked different, though. Dressed for the occasions, and too busy to pay much mind to a mid-level city planner. Or so it had seemed. Uthvir had not failed to notice the keenness of their gaze - though they also had not had much cause to be concerned with it, before now.

 

Melarue strides over and extends a hand. Thenvunin hurries towards them, and takes it, unbending from his usual rigidity just enough to offer a polite - but familiar - embrace.

 

“I was just passing through,” Melarue claims. “The weather was so fine, I thought I might take a walk around the city. What a pleasant surprise to run into you! And your… companion. A hunter?”

 

“Nanae…” Thenvunin says, in a low tone of voice, caught somewhere between reprimand and plea.

 

Uthvir figures that is their cue, then. They move closer, and offer the Pleasure District’s chief manager a very deep bow.

 

“Melarue? We have, in fact, met before. But it is a pleasure to offer my introductions again. I am Uthvir, Event Coordinator for Lady Andruil.”

 

Melarue sizes them up a for moment, before offering a nod of acknowledgement.

 

“Uthvir, Uthvir… did you work on the Winter Festival?” Thenvunin’s nanae wonders, tapping their fingers thoughtfully.

 

The question is a test, they think. No one but the highest ranking attendants and managers tends to work on the winter festival, though sometimes, of course, more mid-ranking individuals are conscripted to handle events in the lower districts, or to organize particular streets and more tedious details. Uthvir was not among such individuals, however, and they would be an unlikely selection at any rate, coming from Andruil’s ranks. Such positions are almost always afforded to followers of Sylaise, or else June or Mythal.

 

In truth, Uthvir might have better prospects in one of Andruil’s cities, but, only if their goal was to achieve a good rank as an Event Coordinator. Their ultimate aspirations in the long-term are much higher. But either way, Melarue is clearly offering them an opportunity to lie, in an effort to make themselves seem more impressive.

 

Which would only accomplish the opposite.

 

They shake their head.

 

“I fear I had no hand in those preparations,” they say.

 

Melarue hums.

 

“Just as well,” they reply. “I found the decorations to be overdone. Fashionable, perhaps, but lacking in substance. And the music was inadequate, they should have assigned _far_  more musicians to the districts. Not mine, of course. Thankfully we had enough talent to make up the difference of our own accord.”

 

Bold words. Though, for someone of Melarue’s rank, perhaps not so much. Uthvir offers a nod of acknowledgement, not refuting, but also not offering any criticism of their own. That would be another trick. Speaking out of turn might either gain them points or cost them, but being overheard would only cause trouble.

 

“Hopefully, should I ever be fortunate enough to organize such an event, I will meet your standards,” they say, instead.

 

Thenvunin clears his throat.

 

“Yes, well, that is all fine and good,” he says. “But I believe Uthvir was just about to leave, and I am absolutely positive that you should not be about the city without an escort, Nanae. There have been rumours of insurgents in the city.”

 

“Certainly not,” Melarue scoffs, unfurling a fan, and battling away a few stray flower petals that had drifted towards them. “Your brother-in-law may be many things, but he is far from incompetent, A few whispers around the city are nothing. Excited young elves getting their blood up. I am not going to barricade myself into the brothels for fear of roaming the streets of the most respectable city in the empire.”

 

“There have been attacks before, Nanae,” Thenvunin insists. “Remember how Venavismi gained his rank. I should walk you home…”

 

His gaze flits towards Uthvir, but they know an excuse when they hear one. It is hardly surprising that Thenvunin would prefer not to introduce them to his parent. So far as Uthvir can tell, parenting makes elves bizarre, defensive, and queerly reckless on behalf of their issue. Sometimes even when said issue is several thousand years old. They are not certain if he is trying to do _them_  a favour, or simply avoid some intangible awkwardness, which seems to have stolen over his countenance.

 

But on this, they doubt they should press matters.

 

“Well, I suppose I shall be on my way, in that case,” they say.

 

Melarue sighs, as if disappointed to have the encounter end so soon. But they also take Thenvunin’s arm, and offer no further protests to his insistence upon escorting them home.

 

“It was a pleasure to meet you in person, Uthvir. Thenvunin makes such interesting friends.”

 

Does he?

 

Uthvir realizes that they cannot say they have met any friends of Thenvunin’s. Though, perhaps that is not so odd, considering how few friends of __theirs__  Thenvunin himself has been introduced to. There have been the usual exchanges at parties, of course, but those guest lists are often more matters of societal maneuvering than actual friendship. And Uthvir does not know many people they consider purely _friendly._ They shake the thought aside, and exit with another graceful bow. Their hair tie tingles slightly, and they feel inexplicably disappointed.

 

It is not until they are halfway back to their apartment, though, that they really stop and consider things. In light of where all their thoughts have been going.

 

Do they want to court Thenvunin?

 

They think, given all that they have felt compelled to do, that they must. And the notion is thrilling and alarming and intimidating all at once. They can barely please the man in bed, his standards for courtship are likely to be convoluted _and_ impossibly high.

 

…But Uthvir has rarely been one to back down from a challenge.

 

Their steps slow, as they consider things over again. And then again. And then they turn, and make their way back to the memorial gardens. Taking a few shortcuts, before asking for a few directions until they can find the office of the garden’s head Gardener. Who in turn leads them to the Offices of Arlathan’s Menageries, in Ghilan’nain’s district.

 

The woman responsible for the memorial garden’s birds considers their request, but only after Uthvir has baited her with an offer to let her apprentice showcase some of their creations at the next gala they organize. Uthvir has a reputation for providing good facilities for such things, and it avails them nicely, as the bird tender accompanies them back to the gardens. She takes the better part of an hour to locate the healthiest bird in the flock. Uthvir has to take the little thing to a blood magic specialist in the Pleasure District. Their own skills at the art are not sufficient for what is required, but after some more referrals and inquiries, they wind up in the commission offices of a purveyor of sympathetic-stimulation sex toys, sitting at a small table whilst the two of them try to figure out if they can regenerate and restore enough of the bird’s bodily functions to literally breathe new life into it.

 

“It would be easier to just acquire a new bird,” the artisan points out.

 

“Of course,” Uthvir agrees. “So obviously, I have some interest in it being this bird in particular.” It may be a long shot, but they are willing to bet that Thenvunin will recognize it. They had noticed this bird themselves, hopping along the top garden wall.

 

And, fortuitously, its plumage is a vivid shade of crimson. One which Uthvir tends to favour in their clothing.

 

A bird to make Thenvunin think of them. It seems like a good opening salvo for a courtship gift, all in all.

 

After a few more minutes, the artisan nods.

 

“Well, I can make the attempt,” she decides. “But figuring out the cost will be a little tricky, given that this is outside my usual range of business. Let me just get a few things together…”

 

Uthvir nods, and several minutes later, they have managed to settle upon an acceptable price. And a fee for the attempt, should it fail and the bird expire. The tiny creature ventures a few curious hops around the table, but already it seems to be getting too tired to fly. According to the Head Gardener, the birds will all be gone by tomorrow. Set to be replaced by a host of butterflies from a farm in Sylaise’s territories.

 

“Will it hurt the little thing?” Uthvir wonders.

 

“I shall try not to,” the artisan says. “It has been some time since I worked with animals, but it can be tricky to tell how much pain they are in. Still, give me a few hours to prepare, and the actual alterations should be quick - if nothing else, speed will help.”

 

Uthvir nods, and supposes that will be that. Hopefully the bird will appreciate being alive enough that any pain will be forgettable. They leave it with the artisan and go and occupy themselves with retrieving some information they had needed to update anyway, visiting a few district managers and seeing what the services they intend to provide for events in the impending season might be. Their arms are burdened with schedules and duty sheets by the time they get back to the artisan’s, in order to help restrain the little bird so that its body can be repaired.

 

It has been a long time since they were a Spirit of Sympathy, now, but Uthvir is fairly __certain__  the procedure hurts. The artisan uses blood magic and her background in flesh crafting to rejuvenate the body’s organs, employing a nearly-gone sliver of spirit essence from a broken toy, and spellwork so deft that Uthvir has difficult tracking the complexity of her hand movements. The bird shakes and peeps in distress, and Uthvir has to physically hold it in place. They get a few desperate scratches on their hands, but a few minutes later, the magic subsides.

 

The little bird topples over, panting from its exertions, and shivering.

 

“I think it worked,” the artisan says, marveling just a little.

 

“How long until the matter is certain?” Uthvir wonders. It would not do to give Thenvunin a gift that will only die on him in a few days, that is __not__  the impression they want to make.

 

“A few days,” the artisan guesses, with a shrug. “If it did not work, then it will start to deteriorate again within that time, I imagine. For _certainty,_  I would wait a week. The magic reserves in the sliver I used will be well gone by then, if the grafting did not take.”

 

Uthvir nods in thanks, and then carefully scoops up the little bird. They deposit it back into the cage the menagerie tender provided them with, and carry it carefully as they make their way back to their apartment.

 

They leave again when it occurs to them that the bird will probably need food. They have no idea what it might eat, but on this they defer to Thenvunin’s knowledge, and acquire some bee pollen, berries, and after a bit of searching, some sprouted seeds. They also pick out a water dish, and settle the bird’s cage in a quiet corner of their study. Then they keep an eye on it, as they set about sorting their files and sketching out a few rough estimates for the next banquet. A diplomat’s ball, at Andruil’s holdings. Uthvir has to sigh at that. Dealing with the estate managers can be… frustrating, at times. They do not hold Uthvir in much reverence or esteem.

 

The bird sleeps.

 

Uthvir checks on it a few times. In the morning it still seems… wobbly. But it drinks some water, even if it ignores the food, and then goes back to sleeping some more. After three days, Uthvir is nearly convinced that their gift is a failure. But on the fourth morning, they wake up to the sounds of exuberant cheeping. Verging on annoying, as they pull themselves out of bed, and investigate to find a water dish that has been knocked over, and a tiny bird that is vaguely damp and also busily tossing seeds out of its cage. It looks bright-eyed and full of verve.

 

“Well,” Uthvir says, as they crouch down to get a better look. “You seem to be improving.”

 

The bird flings a seed directly into their eye.

 

In hindsight, they probably should have seen that coming. With a wince they rub the sting away, and sigh.

 

“Alright, yes, I realize that you did not enjoy being stuck to a table and having your organs restored,” they say. “But in fairness, if I had not done that you would be dead. And I think we can both agree that on __balance,__  this is the better outcome.”

 

The bird chirps and starts chewing at the bars of its cage, and overall gives off a definite aura of _frustration._

 

Uthvir lets out a breath, and steps around the mess of seeds, and goes out onto their balcony. They set up a barrier, and then reconsider. Normal barriers don’t get used for animals, do they? Because they tend to be invisible and that means the tiny things just charge straight at them, and are liable to break their necks. They do something different, whenever Uthvir commissions them for parties. With another sigh, they head back inside, and pull out one of their books on environmental spells. The bird keeps on with its fervent escape attempt.

 

“Yes, yes, I know,” they say. “Just give me a moment and then you can go stretch your wings. I hope you manage to be calmer at some point, or else Thenvunin might not want you after all.”

 

The bird splashes around in the spilled water some more. Uthvir has no idea if that’s good for it. But they know birds take baths, so after a moment, they retrieve the dish and refill it, putting some stones on the bottom to make it harder to tip over. This seems to meet with some approval, as the little bird promptly starts bathing and twittering.

 

Cute little thing.

 

Uthvir finds the spell they need, and they head out and set about casting it. When they’re fairly confident in their work, they go and retrieve the cage, and carry it out. Being sure to close the door behind them, they open the latch, and let the bird out onto their balcony.

 

It hops somewhat cautiously onto the table of their outdoor dining set. Uthvir settles down, still sleep-mussed and rudely awoken, and watches the bird flutter and peep. Its sounds gradually become prettier, more like the ambiance of the memorial garden. And it eats a bit more, at length, and drinks, and after a while even seems to decide that Uthvir is worth exploring. It hops over for a bit, and attempts to use their hand as a hiding place. Before flitting back off to go test the boundaries of the barrier. Safely, they confirm.

 

They are watching their gift flutter back down when their front door chime goes off.

 

…Oh.

 

That… is probably Thenvunin, they realize, as they check the time. Damn. Rising hastily from their seat, they slip back inside. The barrier is sound, so the bird should be safe. They close the door, and slide the curtains shut, and are ultimately more focused on making certain their gift remains hidden than on their appearance.

 

When they open the door, Thenvunin’s eyes widen. A brief rush of arousal escapes him, before he seems to catch it.

 

“Uthvir!” he protests, sharply, before lowering his voice to a whisper. _“Close your robe!”_

 

They glance down at themselves. Sure enough, their robe is open, and they are not wearing a stitch of anything beneath it. Just as they are about to mention that it is nothing Thenvunin has not seen before, though, he hurries into their apartment. Shooing them forwards and hastily closing the door behind himself.

 

Uthvir entertains a brief hope that he is actually making a move of his own accord, before he flaps his hands at them in a scolding gesture.

 

“What are you thinking? Anyone in the corridor could have seen!” he says.

 

“Oh, everyone in this building has seen me naked by now,” Uthvir replies dismissively. Well, perhaps not _everyone,_  but most people who are liable to. Fair’s fair, Uthvir has seen most of them in various states of undress by now, too. They share a public bath, so of course they have.

 

Thenvunin looks positively scandalized for a moment, though.

 

“What?!” he demands, sharply.

 

They raise an eyebrow.

 

“The baths…?”

 

Thenvunin lets out something that, if they did not know any better, they might call a breath of relief. But then he bristles right back up again, doing his level best impersonation of a porcupine.

 

“Well you still should not answer the door like that, it would hardly do to give people _ideas_  about the two of us,” he insists, with a disdainful sniff.

 

Uthvir grins.

 

“Why, Thenvunin. Are you the possessive type?” they tease.

 

It earns them a scowl, and a ‘folded arms but with a blush still on his cheeks’ for good measure, too.

 

“As if I would be so __gauche,”__  he insists.

 

They shrug.

 

“Pity. _I_ am the possessive type,” they admit, unabashed. “Not that it is always practical, of course, but I like to make up the difference in little moments. When I can. You might have noticed.”

 

_“Uthvir,”_  Thenvunin protests.

 

“I mean when I do things like say that your-”

 

_“I know what you meant!”_ Thenvunin hisses at them. “It is barely midday, I am not going to - we are not going to - that is, if you have designs on doing anything other than having lunch like civilized beings, I will remind you that all wagers between us have currently been settled.”

 

__“Currently,”__  Uthvir replies, with a smirk. But as Thenvunin turns back towards the door, they give it up, and obligingly close their robe. “Very well, calm down now. You just caught me at an awkward moment, I fear I slept in. Which means I have not gone to acquire any food. But if you would care to do the honours, I will find something a little less informal to slip into, and we can try this all over again. Hm?”

 

Thenvunin glances at them, and after a moment, makes up his mind. He inclines his head.

 

“Fine,” he agrees. Then he sucks in a breath, and straightens his shoulders. “I suppose it is overdue for me to provide the food anyway. I shall return shortly.”

 

“Much appreciated,” Uthvir replies.

 

They wait until he has left again before making their way back to the balcony. For one moment, they do not see the bird, and their heart drops as they contemplate it somehow sneaking past their barrier. But then they spot a flash of red by one of their decorative plants. They head over, and find the little thing resting on a branch around the back side of it. Sheltered from the sunlight, and looking fluffier than it has in days.

 

They manage to gently get ahold of it without much fuss - though, such birds _would_  be accustomed to handling - and then relocate it to its cage. Which they leave on the balcony. Just in case. The barrier they put won’t last indefinitely, and they are unaccustomed to such spells.

 

By the time Thenvunin gets back, they have managed to change into a set of loose, billowy orange pants, and an open-fronted shirt. The commander does not look __entirely__  pleased with their selection, but in another sense, he seems to appreciate it, as he settles down among their parlor cushions and __shifts__  rather tellingly. The tray full of food is, to Uthvir’s pleasant surprised, well-stocked in things they enjoy.

 

“How gracious of you,” they commend.

 

“All followers of Sylaise are expected to be considerate hosts. Or guests. Whichever qualifies,” Thenvunin informs them, while they pour out two glasses of sweet juice.

 

“Hm. Interesting, then, that the military seems to have such strong opinions against those with _accommodating_  natures,” Uthvir muses.

 

Thenvunin hesitates.

 

“...How so?” he asks, with enough wariness to make Uthvir rethink broaching the subject.

 

But, if they are in, then they are in.

 

“Well, my duties are, in a sense, that of a host as often as not,” they reason, as they move on to segmenting some of the fruits with Thenvunin brought. “So I of course take it upon myself to investigate the various standards and expectations of groups throughout the empire. Arlathan prides itself on its eclectic nature, and it would not do to throw an event only to find that it was, by nature, unwelcoming to certain residents of the city.”

 

Uthvir has some difficulty maintaining a straight face through that spiel. The empire may be laudable and ambitious in nature, but they know very well that it is __full__  of barriers. Walls and ladders and ceilings and deep, dangerous pits. Exclusion is the bread and butter of most Arlathan celebrations, a way of emphasizing to everyone which rung of society they are on, and what limitations and expectations it brings with it. That is why Uthvir cannot wear the brightest shades of crimson or purple, and why Thenvunin’s circlets have no stones.

 

The commander gives them a look that implies some impatience with the ‘formalities’, and they incline their head.

 

“I have been looking into the cultural expectations of elves whose duties align with military careers,” they admit. “A fascinatingly hypocritical set of standards, particularly on the topic of sex. Am I correct in surmising that Sylaise’s forces are not immune to what seem to be the… prevailing attitudes, on _accommodating_  sexual partners? That is, those who tend to 'receive'...?"

 

Thenvunin’s gaze widens for a moment, before his expression abruptly closes off. He makes no move towards the breakfast spread, even when Uthvir tries to hand him a plate of sliced fruit. They give it a moment, and then settle it onto the table in front of him instead.

 

Eventually, though, he does seem to find his voice.

 

“That would depend on what one considers to be the ‘prevailing’ attitudes,” he says, stiffly.

 

Uthvir shrugs.

 

“Condescension. Disdain. A baffling fixation on sexual positioning as some esoteric means of gauging one’s fitness for duty,” they elaborate, a little more bluntly than might be wise. But something in Thenvunin ease just the __faintest__  bit. Not enough to unclench him, but enough that he takes the next little plate that they hand to him. And even manages to sip from his drink.

 

“Such attitudes are outdated,” he says. “Officially, they are not considered grounds for assessing anyone’s fitness for duty. But… there have been cases when, in their wisdom, some Generals or even Lady Sylaise herself have discovered a certain unlikely congruity between ability and… inclination. So the standards have not been entirely discarded.”

 

“Ah. So, a man who is mindful of his position would benefit from… discretion?” they venture.

 

Thenvunin takes a larger drink, and does not meet their gaze.

 

“Potentially,” he says. “A more responsible act would be to fully disclose such things, of course, and permit one’s superiors to make the most accurate assessment of one’s fitness as possible. But one does not wish to bog important persons down with useless information, either. There is a fine line between honesty and over-sharing. Not that I have ever had much trouble with it.”

 

Uthvir regards Thenvunin for a long moment. At length the commander’s gaze darts over to their own, and holds it for just a moment. Before turning down to his plate again.

 

He clears his throat.

 

“But that is hardly a relevant subject for _you,”_ he says, hastily. “Unless you were planning on - I mean, I know we are not precisely _friends_ but we are hardly enemies, and I do not see what you would stand to gain from reducing my position. Unless you are looking to blackmail me. You would not be the first to make such an attempt-”

 

“Of course we are fr… wait. Someone _blackmailed_ you?” Uthvir interrupts, with a snap of anger that surprises even themselves. They drop the savoury tart they had been moving onto a plate, but luckily it just tumbles back onto the serving tray.

 

Thenvunin stares stoically down at the tablecloth. His aura tight and closed-in.

 

“It was a long time ago,” he says. “And it did not go well for them. I may not be a grand General or Attendant, but I am not without recourse to threats.”

 

“Who was it?” Uthvir asks, their countenance cooling as they recover the tart, and consider the matter. How long ago? That kind of scandal would provoke rumours, unless it was __very__  tidily and swiftly contained. Most of what Uthvir has heard rumoured about Thenvunin has to do with his reduced duties, but if those were tied to __any__  hint of blackmail or drama, it would be all over the Arlathan gossip circuit by now. Along with rampant speculations.

 

“I am not going to tell you that,” Thenvunin declares, sternly. A wisp of fear escapes him, and brings Uthvr up short again.

 

“Thenvunin-”

 

“It was a long time ago, and I am hardly going to give you their name so that you can - can _conspire_  to make a better case against me. I should have known that you would-”

 

_“Thenvunin,”_ they interrupt, sharply. The man swallows, but his gaze flits to their own, and this time they manage to catch it. Chasing it when he tries to lower it again, and coaxing him into meeting their stare headlong.

 

“I am not interested in __blackmailing__  you,” they say. “For pity’s sake, you and I _are_ friends. And even if we were not, you are the same rank as I am. If I were to go to the trouble of blackmailing someone, it would be someone far more influential. No offense.”

 

Thenvunin’s expression wavers a little.

 

“Then why on earth would you bring it up?” he asks. And there it is again, that terrible vulnerability that makes Uthvir’s heart skip and their stomach flip, and their breaths still a little bit, as their sympathy wells up. The problem seems to be getting worse, not better.

 

They tap a hand against the table, and then stand up.

 

“Wait one moment,” they request.

 

It is not what they had planned, but… perhaps it is better to take a chance on things. Sometimes luck avails them. While Thenvunin sits stiff as a board at the breakfast table, Uthvir darts back out to the balcony. They can feel some of his confusion even from there, but it only takes them a moment to scoop up the bird cage, and head back inside.

 

The bird itself seems to have been resting from all its hopping about and playing. But as Uthvir brings it in it cheeps a few times, and moves along its perch.

 

Thenvunin cannot restrain his surprise.

 

“What is this?” he asks, as Uthvir carefully clears part of the table, and sets the cage down onto it.

 

“A gift,” they admit.

 

Meaningfully.

 

Thenvunin stares at the bird for a moment, and then back up at them.

 

“A gift? For who?”

 

Their lips twitch.

 

“For _you,_  of course,” they say, doing their best to lighten the tense atmosphere. “I saw you watching the birds at the Memorial Garden yesterday, and you seemed sad about the poor little things. So I pulled a few favours, and managed to find one that could be rescued. Pretty, isn’t it?”

 

Thenvunin gapes at them. There is no other term for it. He looks so surprised that Uthvir feels caught wrong-footed themselves. Though if his past lovers have been __blackmailing__  him, small wonder he harbors some suspicions about their motives.

 

The bird saves the moment by fluttering over to the cage bars and trying to gnaw them apart with its tiny beak again.

 

Thenvunin tsk’s, and reaches through the cage to brush its feathers.

 

“None of that,” he says. “That is not good for your beak. Poor thing, you have no toys! You must be bored stiff. And lonely, too.” He looks up at Uthvir with some faint disapproval. “Birds like this are generally sociable little creatures. They need companionship, preferably of their own kind. How long have you had this one all cooped up for?”

 

Uthvir hesitates.

 

“Er, a few days?” they admit. “It was mostly recovering from ill health, though. It did not start to get antsy until this morning, in fact.”

 

Thenvunin sniffs at them.

 

“Well, then I suppose it is alright,” he permits. “But birds are not simple animals. They need a proper diet, and exercise, and mental stimulation, and calm atmospheres. It is a lot of work to keep them, they are not simply the sort of thing one gives out on a whim. Not if one respects them, anyway. You are very fortunate that I am skilled at birdkeeping, and not just someone who fancies them on a whim, or else this would have been a disaster.”

 

Uthvir takes a moment to translate that out of Thenvunin.

 

“So… you accept the gift?” they venture.

 

The bird cheeps, and Thenvunin does his level best to look like he is _not_ thoroughly charmed. And Uthvir tries not to feel envious of a small bird, that it can break through that veneer so easily.

 

Uthvir is _very_  charming.

 

Just for the record.

 

After a moment, Thenvunin sighs, and shakes his head.

 

“Oh, fine then,” he says. “Yes, I will accept your __gift.__  I had better do so, though I will have to make certain the little fellow gets along with my songbird.”

 

“You have a songbird?” they ask, resisting the urge to crow in triumph. Instead they settle back into their chair, while Thenvunin all but __coos__  at the little red bird, and pulls a cork from the breakfast tray to offer as a toy. The bird takes over chewing on that rather than the bars of its cage.

 

“Yes, I have a songbird,” he confirms.

 

“Those are expensive,” Uthvir notes.

 

“Hm. Well, it had an odd colour pattern, so the breeder was planning to cull it. I got it at a discounted price,” Thenvunin explains.

 

Their lips twitch.

 

“Another rescue,” they muse. “The bird population of Arlathan would appear to be in your debt.”

 

Rather than looking flattered, though, Thenvunin’s expression falters.

 

“Not hardly,” he replies. “One or two birds is very little in the grand scheme of things. But I do not have the rank nor influence to help discourage certain trends. Not that I would question my Lady’s wisdom, of course, but… Arlathan’s birds do not last long.”

 

Uthvir watches for a moment as Thenvunin plays with the little red bird and the piece of cork. They wonder if this was a good gift after all. However, the somber moment passes, and so does the tension of before. And after a while playing with the bird expands into Thenvunin selecting a few breakfast tidbits for it, and then seriously musing on what to name it. Uthvir just watches him, and decides to tentatively deem the effort a success.

 

They are courting Thenvunin now, they suppose.

 

What a thing.

 

“I am pleased you like it,” they determine, when the bird grows tired again. Thenvunin seems struck by self-awareness anew, and clears his throat.

 

“Yes, well. You… have an interest in… that is, you were making such inquiries because you wish to… _approach_  me?”

 

Uthvir has to fight the urge to laugh inappropriately. Their lips twitch, and Thenvunin scowls. They raise a hand.

 

“Forgive me,” they say. “It is just that by most reckoning, one might consider that I ‘approached’ you a long while ago, now. But yes. Formally, Commander, I should like to court you, on the levels of romance, sex, friendship, and good-natured rivalry.”

 

Thenvunin blushes. It is a far sweeter blush, even, than the ones that Uthvir has provoked from him through ‘scandalous’ compliments or drawn out encounters. They try not to feel too smitten, but it may be a forgone conclusion. Even though the man is still sitting stiff as a board and looking as though he might bolt at any moment.

 

Or perhaps _especially_  because of the contrast. Uthvir wonders when they started finding him endearing rather than just bizarre. They suspect it might have been embarrassingly early on.

 

At length, Thenvunin nods.

 

They let out a breath.

 

“Alright,” he concedes. “I shall consider it. But you will be _discreet.”_

 

“Of course,” Uthvir readily agrees. “I can play the sweeter party, should it be called for. It would not be the first time. And people will be inclined to assume as much anyway, given that you are tall and broad, and I am a ‘slip of a thing’. No one else ever need know that I can fold you up like a-”

 

Thenvunin hisses at them like a split pipe, and cuts them off with a wave, and a look that is stern even by his usual standards.

 

He glances, of all things, _meaningfully at the bird._

 

“Do _not_ be inappropriate in front of my pets,” he insists. “That is a rule.”

 

Uthvir’s lips twitch.

 

They obligingly swallow back yet another chuckle.

 

“As you say,” they agree, instead, and offer up a deferential nod.

 

Thenvunin does not look entirely convinced. Not of their sincerity on this topic, and probably not of their sincerity on others, too. But that is alright. Uthvir supposes, they will just have to take plenty of time to reassure him.

 

And find out who tried to blackmail him in the meanwhile.

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

“Thenvunin… sometimes, you are _very_ cute,” Uthvir observes.

 

And then they lean in closer, one finger still toying with his waistband, their robe still sliding dangerously off of their figure, and kiss his nose.

 

Thenvunin has no idea how he is supposed to even begin to react to that.

 

It throws him, entirely. It is a disaster. He feels his face heat, and his neck, too. Words fail him, and something inside of him flails in unexpected __delight__ , which mortifies him almost as soon as it happens. The feel of Uthvir’s lips brushing the bridge of his nose lingers, for all that it was only a brief gesture. The cool garden air feels __that__  much cooler against his heated skin, and especially against his flushed cheeks, and before he can even figure out how he __should__  respond, his emotions escape his restraint and suffuse his aura. Wavering and exposed.

 

_Uthvir thinks I am cute?_

 

Impossible. They must be lying. Thenvunin’s form merits many compliments, he is very beautiful of course, but he is tall and broad and - and he is a _military man,_  that is antithetical to cuteness! Affront mingles with delight and mortification and the edge of danger that had already been present in the midst of their stolen interlude in Sylaise’s gardens, and Thenvunin freezes up.

 

Uthvir pauses, too. Their eyebrows go up, and their touch stills for a moment. Thenvunin almost cannot believe it when he sees __their__  cheeks darken a little, as if in response to his response.

 

But they recover first. Because of course they do, they would never do him the courtesy of letting him actually get his wits back before them.

 

_“Oh,”_  they murmur. “Poor Thenvunin. You have not been told often enough…”

 

“Of course not!” he snaps, before he realizes that it does not sound quite right. He flusters, going disastrously out-of-sorts, in a way he hasn’t done in more than a thousand years.

 

And Uthvir has the absolute __gall__  to look __charmed.__

 

“By which I mean, it is not a thing that is said to me, because it is inaccurate. I am many things. Beautiful, fashionable, picturesque… I, I’m…” he swallows as they tighten their grip on the front of his skirt, and with a smirk, pull him closer. The movement jostles him, and is surely what steals the remaining protests from his lips as their robe slips lower down, in turn.

 

“You are _flustered,”_ they observe, damn them. Their lips curl and the air around __them__  sparks with something heated, something… enamored, he would almost dare to say. “Flustered because I called you cute. How impossibly charming…”

 

“I am most certainly not!” Thenvunin denies. “I have simply had too much to drink.”

 

A total lie, and even he knows it. He barely touched the wine this evening. Uthvir snorts, but then tilts their head, and seems to consider something. For half a moment he is almost worried that they _do_  believe him - or hopeful, rather. Certainly not worried, even though that would mean they would probably do that uncharacteristically noble thing where they take him home but instead of touching him they just let him sleep it off in their bed. Tucked into too many blankets that smell like they do, squirreled away like some stolen treasure...

 

A terrible imposition, really, they could at least just send him home, like a normal elf.

 

“Hmm,” they say instead, though, and start undoing the ties of his belt. “We could work with that. The beautiful commander, overcome by sweet wine and sweeter words. Seduced by some __questionable__  hunter, with obvious designs upon his tender flesh…”

 

Thenvunin’s cock twitches, and his arousal surges along with his embarrassment.

 

“Are you just describing the situation?” he asks, with more shrill in his voice than intended.

 

Uthvir just grins.

 

“I cannot believe it did not occur to me before,” they murmur. “I bet you like to play, do you not? The captured soldier, the seduced attendant, the beguiled prince… look at that face! Did I guess right again?”

 

Thenvunin takes in a deep, steadying breath.

 

This menace of an elf is going to be the death of him. And he should absolutely refute their ‘epiphany’, even if a few of his nanae’s employees could probably confirm it by now. They would not, and Thenvunin can hardly afford to keep giving Uthvir ammunition. They already have more than enough as it is…

 

…Though maybe, in the end, that is simply it. They _already_  have more than enough as it is.

 

He swallows, and after a moment, gives up and goes limp.

 

“Oh, you _fiend,”_ he accuses. “If the General finds out…”

 

“Hm, the General is not going to,” Uthvir says, obviously delighted, as they follow him down to trail sharp kisses along his chest. “I have no intentions of sharing you, dear, sweet Commander. Now that you are in my clutches, and intend to savour you all to myself.”

 

So saying, they pull his skirt away at last, and close a hot, possessive hand around his cock. Thenvunin lets a gasp escape, before biting the side of one fist to stifle himself. They _are_  in the public gardens, after all. And if they were to be caught… his hips jerk, and a fresh rush of arousal steals away his better senses, while Uthvir’s keen gaze roves across his form.

 

Oh, this is a bad, _bad_  idea. He is absolutely going to regret all of this.

 

…Later.

 

~

 

“Do you know, I think you have brought to the fore a very possessive streak in me,” Uthvir says. Out of the blue, in a perfectly casual tone of voice, in the middle of a summer luncheon party. Which is being thrown by one of Sylaise’s more favoured and meticulous attendants. Thenvunin is still not wholly certain what Uthvir even did to get an invitation, but somehow their garish and _appallingly loose_  red robe does not seem nearly as out of place at the gathering as Thenvunin’s proper military attire.

 

He clears his throat, and swiftly assesses their surroundings for any eavesdroppers. Tasallir is busy chatting with several of _his_  attendants, however. All of them dressed in loose, flowing clothes, while Tasallir himself sports an elaborate headdress. And most of the other guests at the luncheon have separated into their own groups for mingling. There are a few of Mythal’s people over at the other end of the banquet table, but they seem engrossed in some debate of their own.

 

“Keep your voice down,” Thenvunin insists, just the same.

 

Uthvir smirks at him.

 

“I am just saying. It struck me, while you were speaking with Passion, that I like having you all to myself. At least for now, anyway. We should probably discuss it somewhat. What is your opinion on exclusivity?” they ask, toying with one of the dainty little food bites arrayed at the table, before popping it into their mouth.

 

Thenvunin breathes in through his nose, and then slowly lets it out again, while counting backwards from three.

 

“I __think__  it is not fit discussion for this venue,” he replies.

 

Uthvir sighs.

 

“Oh, but I am _bored,”_  they admit, in a low tone of voice. That is a terrible sign. Thenvunin can only watch in horror as they get a certain gleam in their eye, and then move closer, and link their arm with his. “Thenvunin, darling,” they say, more clearly. “All this sunlight is making me dizzy, would you be so gallant as to escort me to those shaded boughs over there? I feel far too faint to get there on my own.”

 

Thenvunin clears his throat, and knows that more than a few people _did_  overhear that. Before he can really muster up a response, though, Uthvir begins steering him towards the shaded benches of their own accord. Grinning __far__  too cheekily at him, as Thenvunin does his level best to actually look like he might be supporting them, and not simply having himself dragged off to some dim corner to - to _make woo,_  or something.

 

_“Uthvir,”_ he hisses. “The faint and delicate party does not _haul_ their stalwart lover off when they feel in need of escort.”

 

Uthvir shrugs, as they finally reach the shadier part of the garden, and settles themselves onto their bench.

 

“Only you noticed that. And anyway, look, I found us a place where we can talk with a little more privacy,” they insist.

 

“Everyone is going to think we are talking about indecent things anyway!” Thenvunin snaps.

 

Again, they shrug.

 

“Our courtship is not a secret. Only the particulars,” they say. “Why would anyone complain, so long as we do not _do_  anything indecent? I would not actually disrupt Tasallir’s little luncheon, you know, he is a terrible enemy to make. I am fairly certain he does paperwork for _fun,_  and Sylaise still tends to model jewelry off of his eyes.”

 

“He does, and she does, and he is indeed a terrible enemy to make,” Thenvunin agrees, stiffly. Tasallir has never liked him. _Garish,_ the man always calls him. As if Thenvunin can help being broad-shouldered. Well, he supposes some elves could, but _he_ cannot. It is a mystery as to why he even gets invited to these things, at this point. But then again, common practice is often to include a few individuals of less-than-ideal build, just to remind everyone present how well someone like Tasallir actually fits their role.

 

“We could probably make out a little, if it would make you feel better,” Uthvir offers.

 

Thenvunin glowers at them, sternly.

 

_“No,”_ he says. That is the last thing he needs, particularly if they start to get… if things go anywhere near their usual vicinity, with regards to who tends to take charge of what.

 

Besides, Tasallir despises ‘erotic displays’ of most any kind. He would certainly take offense. Thenvunin mentions as much, and Uthvir, at least, acquiesces and makes no move to insist upon it anyway. They lean back instead, letting the dappled sunlight fall across their bared skin, and breathing in the scent from a few nearby flowers. Their fingers brush against Thenvunin’s, and after a moment, one of their hands settles atop his own.

 

“I like you,” they say. Once again, wholly out of the blue.

 

His face burns.

 

__“Stop__  that,” he scolds.

 

They snicker.

 

“That was the tamest of all possible confessions!” they protest. “My goodness, Thenvunin, if you are going to treat it all as scandalous, I might as well just tell you that your uniform makes me want to slide my hand up that billowing skirt and watch you go red and flushed and panting while I stroke you off beneath your clothes.”

 

Thenvunin keeps himself a firmly restrained as he can, and thereby resists his every reaction to _that_  piece of inappropriateness. Save, perhaps, a sudden need to reposition himself on his seat a little. He glares at Uthvir again, but they are still looking up towards the shading vines.

 

“I thought we were going to be __discreet,”__  he protests.

 

Uthvir finally does look at him, at that. They raise their eyebrows, and then gesture around themselves.

 

“Is this not discreet?” they ask. “No one listening in, and I am not _actually_  reaching up your skirts, you know. I did try and keep things relatively ‘prim’, but it hardly seems to make a difference.”

 

“Because you infuse __everything__  with luridness,” Thenvunin insists.

 

“Do I? Perhaps you just think I do, because you want me very badly,” Uthvir posits, with appalling conceit. Thenvunin purses his lips and firmly scolds himself as it somehow inspires a rush of heat through him, battering further at his tightly-wound restraint, and forcing to lament his own utterly terrible taste. Not that they are __correct,__  by any means, but somehow he is beginning to associate their smug inappropriateness with… stimulating things.

 

It is a result of conditioning, most surely. Associations, and all of that. If you play a whistle for a dog every time you feed it, then soon enough the sound of a whistle to set the dog to salivating. Not that Thenvunin is a dog, but his libido may as well be.

 

…That came out wrong.

 

He is very glad that he did not try and articulate it out loud, for Uthvir to hear.

 

“One day, I should like to attend an event with you without having to endure a bevy of innuendo,” he laments, in a low mutter.

 

Uthvir hums at him, and pats the back of his hand.

 

“You know, you only need to ask,” they say, which is plainly ridiculous. “I will be on my best behaviour next time. I promise; not a single word on any subject of plausible lewdness shall escape me. But since this luncheon is already a wash on that front, could we actually discuss our courtship a little? Because I would like to know where things stand.”

 

Thenvunin swallows. Talking about courtship - discussing it, at this stage, with all the steps that they have already gone through… that is a step in and of itself. Should he allow it, he wonders? He supposes they could move back a few steps again. It would not be such a great denial that it would break things off entirely. Moving forward is almost certainly a questionable idea. Though, this entire venture is, truth be told.

 

“...Exclusivity is rarely a viable approach to relationships,” he asserts. Because it is true, anyway.

 

“That is the general consensus,” Uthvir agrees, unperturbed. “On the other hand, you have just come out from a massive dry spell, and from what I have gathered, you are generally quite cautious in your __pursuits__  anyway. But then, too, I have a few arrangements which require certain _favours_  of me. So exclusivity would not be instantaneous. Though I will point out, letting it be known - while perhaps somewhat unconventional - would eventually provide ample excuse for both of us to avoid _unwelcome advances,_  save from the most highly ranked of sources.”

 

Thenvunin pauses, as their words register beyond just the low, flirtatious tone of their voice.

 

“Favours?” he asks. “What sort of favours?”

 

Uthvir hesitates. Just a little. Then they gesture dismissively.

 

“Oh, you know,” they say. “Sometimes you catch more flies with honey. I have been trying to put an end to most such arrangements the past few decades anyway, so they are more or less on their way out of my rotation all the same.”

 

He swallows, feeling uneasy. He __does__  know, in fact. It is probably strange that it had never occurred to him before, how someone like Uthvir probably even got their position in Arlathan. They are not a particularly decorated hunter, after all, and while he has heard that they held Andruil’s favour for a while, it is also apparent that they are no longer part of her inner circle. Andruil does not have a reputation for greater mercy with her discarded favourites than Sylaise does. If anything, it is much worse.

 

Thenvunin stares at some of the shadows on Uthvir’s collarbones, for just long enough that they raise an eyebrow at him. Then he hastily averts his gaze.

 

“I would not… that is, I suppose, given my lack of interest in other parties at the moment… I would be willing to attempt such an arrangement. For the time being.”

 

He clears his throat.

 

Uthvir beams at him.

 

“Wonderful!” they say. “I was hoping that would be your answer. You are too good to me, Thenvunin, really. I am going to make it worth your while, letting me have you all to myself.”

 

They lean in, and cup his cheek, and pull him down to press a kiss to the other. His skin warms beneath their hands, but his eyes fly up towards the luncheon party’s main gathering. To where a few onlookers are gossiping, even now, and Tasallir is frowning slightly, and his heart hammers in his chest as he wonders what picture he and Uthvir really do make.

 

They leave it at a kiss, however, and simply squeeze his hand, before moving back to their own side of the bench.

 

“And I really do like you,” they murmur, more quietly.

 

Thenvunin clears his throat again, but this time, he does not bother to rebuke them.

 

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

Any hunter with a single ounce of ambition knows that the only hunts which cannot be missed, if one wants to maintain a worthwhile reputation among Andruil’s ranks, are the Great Hunts.

 

They are not common affairs, of course, given their extensiveness. But they are fairly regular, in terms of happening every so often, and following certain patterns. Ghilan’nain takes great pains to provide her wife with exemplary sport, and Andruil anticipates these hunts with fervour, as they fend off the persistent apathy which plagues a woman of her power and station. Her eyes always alight with a flame of excitement when a Great Hunt is upon them. It is _her_  time, and she revels in it.

 

If Uthvir is ever to regain her favour, a Great Hunt would be their best chance to do it. Ordinarily their own excitement feels fit to mirror hers. The opportunity to prove themselves, to win some feat or bag a trophy of sufficient importance to earn her praise... well. It is a giddy prospect.

 

But this one is… different.

 

They cannot fully place why. Perhaps it is simply one of those things; a low, in a usual high. But all the preparations seem to take longer. The preliminary celebration and bragging rounds are unusually tedious. Everything is just so __time consuming,__  Uthvir never noticed before how many unnecessary layers there are to all of it before. Or rather, they never really noticed that so many layers _were_  unnecessary. The pre-hunts and the tournaments and the games, the impromptu parties that suddenly demand every hunter who is any hunter go and attend, and also demand that any hunter with a skill at arranging such things is conscripted last minute to do so. They hardly attend anything themselves for the beginning of the season, and then it seems their days are eaten up by the equal need to provide their services and attend what events might grant them an invitation to join the higher-ranking hunting parties.

 

In the past it had always seemed worthwhile, for the sake of earning a position in Andruil’s own party. A few times they even managed it, though Uthvir had not managed to acquit themselves well enough to catch her eye again. But now…

 

Stalking is a high-ranking hunter, one of Andruil’s favoured, much praised in their skills and frequently won over by Uthvir’s charms. An advantage. Stalking is often part of Andruil’s hunting party, and this year is no different. But Uthvir finds it abnormally grating to attend his feasts this year. His eyes tracking their movements feel especially unwelcome, and when he bids them come and personally serve him towards the end of the banquet, his wandering hands are atypically hard to endure.

 

Stalking is not an unattractive elf. He has Andruil’s look, dark hair and vivid eyes - even if they are green rather than gold - and a good deal of musculature. Strong, broad shoulders. But when he slides a hand up their skirt, they have to fight a sudden urge to break his wrist. It takes them a few minutes to focus on the sensations his fingers are provoking, and not their sudden thoughts of a garden conversation, of feeling more happy than they expected by the prospect of having Thenvunin all to themselves.

 

And… keeping themselves all to Thenvunin, too.

 

They manage a coy smile, before they move Stalking’s hand away, and put his refilled goblet into it instead.

 

“I should have mentioned,” they say. “I am courting someone. Exclusively, as a matter of fact. More’s the pity, but it has been an interesting prospect to explore.”

 

Stalking accepts his drink, as his eyebrows lift. He looks more annoyed than they expected; Uthvir has charmed him, certainly, but the man has never made any overtures beyond dalliances.

 

“Courting? _You?”_ he asks. “In a closed relationship? What nonsense.”

 

“Certainly not,” Uthvir objects, putting on a pout. “Why would you think me incapable of such a thing?”

 

Stalking snorts.

 

“Who is it, then?” he asks. “Are you trying to make me jealous? Did you go and work out some bargain with Itarsen, or did Faunalyn finally let you into her bed?”

 

“Neither,” they reply, plucking up their own drink. “My lover prefers discretion.”

 

“It is Thenvunin,” Insaral, one of the other mid-ranking hunters vying for favour, interjects. Throwing Uthvir a smirk, as their stomach momentarily flips. How did _they_ find that out? The alarm they feel seems incongruous a moment later, though. Of course Insaral knows. Uthvir has not made a secret of it, nor, in the end, has Thenvunin. It would not be difficult information to obtain. But for some reason, hearing Thenvunin’s name dropped into this conversation feels like a betrayal. Like they have done him a disservice; bringing him into this.

 

_“Commander_  Thenvunin,” they correct.

 

Stalking makes a displeased face.

 

“Who?”

 

“One of Sylaise’s,” Insaral offers up, obviously pleased by Uthvir’s slip. “Some mid-ranking military man. Not bad looking, if you like that sort of thing. Big. Humourless. Probably fucks in the dark with his eyes shut and his tunic still on.”

 

“Well, sometimes he _does_  get too carried away to undress,” Uthvir fires back, as Stalking’s hand tightens on their hip.

 

They offer him a smile, and shrug.

 

“What can I say? I happen to like broad shoulders.”

 

The hunter does not seem inclined to just laugh this one off, though. For whatever reason. He leans in, and very pointedly puts his hand back up Uthvir’s skirt. They swallow, thinking fast as they read the new tone of the encounter. Stalking still has that _streak_  in him, it would seem. They had thought embodiment had rid him of most of it. But then, his name is still the same. So perhaps not.

 

“That mid-ranking hearthkeeper can come object in person if he wants to keep you to himself,” he says, and __grips__  Uthvir hard enough to draw a wince from them. “But I don’t see him here.”

 

Drawing in a breath, Uthvir moves as if to placate, and slips a knife from their sleeve. It is a thin blade, and it takes a moment for Stalking’s intent gaze to shift from their own and over to the sliver of metal just barely kissing the sensitive muscle behind his ear.

 

There is a moment of pure tension.

 

Then he loosens his grip on Uthvir.

 

“Did you forget that I am not one of Sylaise’s hearthkeepers myself?” they ask him. Bracing for a fight, if need be. They do not have a fraction of the man’s rank, in the grand scheme of things, but in this season, acts of insolence can read as welcome ambition rather than insubordination. And Andruil will probably be amused, rather than sympathetic. They would not win… although, they could make him bleed for it.

 

But Stalking goes the other way, and lets out a chuckle. And then a laugh.

 

“Perhaps I did at that,” he concedes. “Ah, Uthvir. Always full of surprises.”

 

“It keeps life entertaining,” they reply, breezily, and put their knife away.

 

Stalking does not invite them to accompany him on his hunt this year, however. Uthvir supposes they should have played it all differently. They had certainly intended to. But somehow they cannot bring themselves to think of _how,_ and instead they go to bed alone that evening, and make plans for what their next moves will be.

 

Itarsen, Stalking’s perpetual rival, answers some of their dilemma by inviting them to join __her__  company instead. Uthvir gets the formal invitation the next week. Surprising, considering that they barely curried any favour with her this season. Embarrassing Stalking would certainly appeal to her, but… Uthvir had not considered the incident public or dramatic enough to create that effect. A little poking around, though, and they learn that Itarsen’s usual hunting retinue has shrunk this year thanks to one of the up-and-comers in Andruil’s favour poaching her ranks. Said up-and-comer is allied with Stalking, so Uthvir benefits from the conflict.

 

They would ordinarily revel in the luck, but it just seems… not bad, they suppose. Itarsen will not be with Andruil, but should have a good range of hunters and available prey. Ample chance for them to prove themselves. They decide they are going to check on Thenvunin, though. Just to make sure that he has not been distressed by any rumours - he knows they are busy with the hunt’s preparations, but it has been _months_  since they managed to see him. And he only answers half the letters they send, and then just with clipped comments and flowery signatures.

 

Their invitation for a lunch date gets a fairly swift confirmation. A few days later, they make certain to clear some time, setting out their usual things and feeling some of the tension actually bleed away when the door chimes for Thenvunin’s arrival.

 

They straighten their robe a little, and go to meet him rather than just beckoning him in.

 

To their surprise, he is holding a parcel in his hands. Something in soft bronze wrappings. He blinks, and for a moment his expression is open enough that they read a flash of trepidation. Not enough to escape into the air around him, but enough so that they do not think they imagined it, before he lifts his chin and clears his throat.

 

“I was beginning to think you had grown tired of me,” he says.

 

Uthvir’s intake of breath is not as put-upon as it might normally be, as they gesture him in.

 

“Perish the thought!” they insist. “My dear commander. How could I grow tired of you? I have scarcely begun with you!”

 

Thenvunin makes his way inside, and does not quite meet their gaze. He seems to relax a little, though, as he makes his way into the main sitting room. Seeing the spread they acquired for lunch, and settling into their usual routine. Uthvir follows him, and after a moment, gives in to a sudden impulse and settles themselves beside him. Rather than their usual place across from him. They take up a position similar to the one they had used while serving Stalking; half in his lap, half out, draping themselves across his shoulder as they reach over and pull the little lunch table a bit closer.

 

Thenvunin’s cheeks colour. He stiffens with a flare of surprise.

 

Uthvir grins.

 

“The sun is at a bad angle,” they insist. “I would prefer not to get it in my eyes. There are lovelier things to see.”

 

“That is not even a good excuse, your windows have the charms to prevent that,” Thenvunin complains.

 

They raise an eyebrow at him.

 

“Should I move?” they ask.

 

He hesitates.

 

“...It is your apartment. You will sit where you please, I am sure,” he says. “Even if it makes it awkward for me to eat.”

 

“Oh, but I can help with that!” they declare. Such a difference it makes, they think, to tease Thenvunin. Who keeps his hands to himself, even as they lean over him and press against him, moving around to fill a pair of glasses and plates. They do not think they would mind if he suddenly grew bolder, but it is more relaxing than they expected to have him fluster and gripe a bit, and then demand to know where they managed to get blueberries this season.

 

“The Great Hunt is coming, everyone is exchanging tokens and favours and gifts,” they explain. “Have as many as you like.”

 

Thenvunin accepts the bowl, and then mulls something over a moment, before letting out a breath.

 

“My birds love them,” he says. “Would you be offended if I took some home?”

 

Uthvir grins.

 

“Not at all!” they exclaim, filing that information away. Blueberries, hm? Thenvunin scoops a handful from the bowl, and Uthvir promises to fetch him a travel pouch before he goes. They put a few onto his plate for good measure, and are surprised when they feel a hand settle at their waist. Very tentative. When they turn back towards him, though, Thenvunin’s expression is verging on _resolute._

 

“I brought you a gift,” he declares. “I would hardly have it said that I have been negligent in my own courting, though it occurred to me that I may have been. Still… it, um. It is not much. Just a token. You may do with it what you please.”

 

He thrusts the parcel he brought at Uthvir, then. Squishing it slightly in his haste, and then withdrawing his touch.

 

Uthvir blinks.

 

A slow warmth spreads through them. A slow smile follows.

 

“Why, __Thenvunin-”__

 

“Oh, just open it!” he insists, looking down at the floor and blushing _delightfully._

 

Uthvir decides to oblige him. Honestly curious as to what he may have gotten them, though it does not remain much of a mystery when they start really considering it. The parcel is soft and bulky, and the outer wrappings are thin. They slide away easily, revealing bright red and purple patterning in elegant whorls and symbols. A finely-stitched cushion, with hawks and branches and flowers imprinted into the material. __Very__  soft, as they smooth a hand over it, but with good stuffing that springs back as soon as they pull their hand away.

 

It is… cozy.

 

And very _bedroom,_  they cannot help but notice. In their colour… and in the one they are beginning to think Thenvunin favours most, too.

 

“How lovely,” they say, holding it in the light.

 

Thenvunin clears his throat.

 

“As I said, it is not much. Merely a reciprocal gift, of the sort that is standard for these kinds of courtships.”

 

Uthvir feels just the tiniest bit of disappointment at the curtness of his tone.

 

“Just standard?” they tease, pushing it aside. And the cushion, too, as they carefully set it onto several others that are arranged conveniently beside their little seating bench. Thenvunin nods, and Uthvir feels a sudden rush of… something. Frustration, maybe. But that is not quite right. Frustration and affection, possessiveness and _wanting,_  something unsatisfied with Thenvunin’s silence and stiffness at the moment, rather than amused by it. They give into the feeling, and climb more fully into his lap. Lunch forgotten for the moment.

 

They want him to look at them.

 

“Do you like me, Thenvunin?” they ask.

 

They have guesses as much. But in the end, he has never really _said._

 

He looks at them, taken aback by the question. Cheeks flushed and eyes wide for a moment, before his throat bobs, and he opens his mouth. And then closes it. Uthvir gives him a moment, intent upon getting an answer.

 

_“Well,”_ he finally says. “What a thing to ask! I accepted your courtship, did I not?”

 

They grin at him.

 

“So you did,” they agree. Sliding a hand down his front. His hips shift, but rather than reaching for the fastenings on his clothes, they press in a little closer, and undo their own. Freeing themselves, and sliding their way up his thigh. Their cock brushes against the smooth material of his day armour, cool enough to make them shiver. His fingers flex against their thigh, and that little motion seems to sink right through them.

 

They rock their hips, and brush up against him until the wanting in them solidifies into a firm, fervent heat.

 

“I like you,” they say. Whispering against his lips.

 

His gaze darts down to theirs.

 

“So you have mentioned,” he murmurs. Breath brushing over them, and even though the words do not match it feels like an admission of something. Like asking for something, in the way the air around him twists and _yields,_  so that Uthvir cannot quite remember moving in to kiss him. But they do, and then they grow more fervent, gripping his shoulders and rocking their arousal against him as they claim his lips. Brushing his cheek with their free hand.

 

They kiss him until they run out of breath for it. Tightening their hold on him until they move their hand up to tangle in his hair, and their arousal has become an insistent demand. Begging for touch.

 

Begging…

 

Well.

 

Uthvir supposes they can hardly ask for something they will not give.

 

They nip Thenvunin’s bottom lip. His eyes are closed, as they trail their mouth towards his ear.

 

“Won’t you touch me?” they ask him. “Any gift would pale in comparison to the feel of your hands on me. Please, Thenvunin?”

 

His sharp intake of breath gives them pause.

 

Perhaps that was the wrong move. After all, they know what he likes, and this is not familiar territory. Their heart speeds up a little as they consider his myriad hang-ups, as well. Maybe he dislikes this? Maybe he finds it worthy of the same derision the he fears receiving? But the heat in the air has not soured, and the trembling they feel from him seems more like a sudden burst of nerves than anything.

 

Uthvir swallows, and nevertheless changes tactics.

 

“No?” they ask, a moment later. Keeping their tone much lighter. “Pity. I suppose I will just have to avail myself in other ways…”

 

They reach for his belt sash, then. Some of the tension in his shoulders eases, as they undo the fastenings to pull him free, too, take matters into their own hands. Thenvunin leans back, and grips the blanket covering on the bench, while Uthvir strokes him and then rubs up against him. They murmur his name again as they slide their cock up against his own. Heated skin brushing, his arms flexing while they do their very best to move against him.

 

Still. They wonder what his touch would be like, on them. Thinking of Stalking’s own possessive grasping. Of dalliances that had ignited their blood. Of the way Andruil had gripped them, and pulled promises of fealty and adoration from their lips, and bound them in the rivers of their blood. Would Thenvunin ever get like that? Demanding and possessive and unforgiving of their weakness? They cannot imagine it. It would have to be different.

 

Uthvir lets themselves think of a swordsman’s hands, softened with sweet-smelled lotions and oils, hands they have held and kissed, as he comes in their lap. They brush their fingers gently over his spent flesh, before stroking themselves. Nearly there when they feel a tentative hand settle over theirs.

 

Not quite touching, but the move is close enough that it puts them over the edge. They lean into Thenvunin as they dirty his pretty belt sash, and bury their face against his neck. Breaths ragged, and thoughts scattered.

 

He brushes his thumb against their wrist, and either by accident or design, against the side of their cock. Before he hastily withdraws his hand.

 

“You are going to have to loan me a sash, this is __not__  self-cleaning material,” he complains, in a shaky murmur.

 

Uthvir snorts.

 

They give themselves a moment, and then pat his chest.

 

“Certainly, lover,” they agree. Then they give in to another impulse, and steal another kiss from his lips.

 

 

~

 

 

The hunting begins in earnest a month after that. Uthvir does not get another chance to see Thenvunin, between one thing and another. As they make their way to the procession they’ve been assigned to, at one of the lower city eluvians, they are not expecting to see him again until their return. Preferably with a trophy worthy of Andruil… and some tokens he might find suitable, too. A tricky prospect. Despite his love of birds they suspect he would react poorly to a dead one, and he has professed an enormous dislike for fur; so the traditional gift of pelts is out.

 

They are thinking the matter over so thoroughly that when they look up and see Thenvunin in the eluvian chamber, they have to blink a few times and double-check to make certain that they have not somehow conjured him from their thoughts.

 

But no; there he is. Dressed in his guardsman attire, looking prim and proper as ever as he stands at attention by the eluvian. Uthvir straightens their gauntlets, and recollects that Sylaise’s people do tend to handle patrol and guard duties in some parts of the lower city. Though eluvians are generally guarded by peacekeepers, when they are not within estate grounds.

 

“Commander,” they greet, approaching him with a grin. As they draw close, they pause, and then fold their arms. Thenvunin stares at them longer than usual. But then, they __are__  in their good armour. “Did you come to see me off?”

 

He bristles at the insinuation.

 

“I am on duty, in fact,” he insists.

 

“I did not realize this was part of your usual roster,” they say. “Do you come to the lower city often?”

 

“I go wherever my Lady bids.”

 

He hesitates a moment, glancing at some of the other hunters. Mostly those in the middling or lower ranks, though. Focused on making certain their last minute preparations are sufficient, and waiting for others to come. There is no rush. Thenvunin seems to determine that they are not of particular concern. He looks back at Uthvir, and then takes a step forward.

 

“I hope you will not do anything rash, while you are about your own duties,” he says.

 

Uthvir winks.

 

“The Great Hunt is a privilege, Thenvunin, not a duty,” they insist. “And rashness is called for. Is there any trophy I could claim that would please you? Our quarry can be unpredictable, by Ghilan’nain’s blessing, but if you name something, I will do my utmost to return with it.”

 

Thenvunin frowns at them.

 

“I have no desire for any dead things,” he says. “Do what you must, and then come back in one piece. I would certainly not wish to nursemaid you through any grievous injuries.”

 

He sniffs, and Uthvir’s grin widens.

 

“But you _would?”_  they wonder. “Why, Thenvunin, how sweet!”

 

He makes a sharp shushing motion at them, and glances back towards the other hunters, and then over to the hearthkeeper at the other side of the gate. But the dark-haired man - Venavismi, Uthvir thinks - just looks faintly amused, and the hunters cannot be bothered. When Thenvunin frowns at them again, they take a step forward themselves, and lean swiftly upwards to press their lips to his.

 

“For luck,” they say.

 

He purses his lips, and then shakes his head at them.

 

“I am on _duty,”_  he replies.

 

“More’s the pity. There are a few hours yet before we will leave, and a few secluded places not far off. I can think of some very invigorating ways to kill time,” they lament, until Thenvunin has his sour-lemon-face on, and is radiating very conspicuous disapproval.

 

“You are a charmer,” Venavismi notes.

 

“Why thank you,” Uthvir replies, graciously. The man winks, and Thenvunin redirects his glower towards him.

 

“We are _exclusive,”_ he snaps. Venavismi looks consternated for a moment, before raising a hand in capitulation, and deferring easily enough. Uthvir warms again, and beams at Thenvunin while he sucks in a breath and closes his eyes, and looks as though he is counting slowly backwards from ten. Doubtless wondering what sort of scene they are going to make over this.

 

They decide to have mercy, in light of the warm, fuzzy feelings in them, and when he finally musters up the nerve to look at them again, just nod.

 

“So we are,” they agree. “But you are not going to go over all possessive every time someone pays me a compliment, are you? Not that I am necessarily complaining. We will have to discuss it, though. Negotiate a few boundaries.”

 

Thenvunin shoots a sidelong look of disapproval at Venavismi.

 

“I know him,” he says. “And I know what his _winking_  means.”

 

“You should,” the man quips.

 

Oh.

 

Hmm.

 

Uthvir gives him another, more critical look over.

 

“Is that so?” they ask, leaning back on one leg, and tapping their nails against their bicep.

 

Again, he raises a hand in a placating gesture.

 

“About five hundred years ago, yes,” he says. “But I have no intention of intruding. Not unless you invite me, anyway. I have a thing for tall-and-uptight, and short-and-sharp, but if neither of you are interested then I shall keep my winks to myself.”

 

“See that you do,” Thenvunin tells him.

 

Uthvir moves a little closer, and rests a hand at his waist. He looks back towards them, and seems as if he is about to tell them to move off. Before he can, they tap a finger to his lips.

 

“I am glad you are taking our arrangement seriously. Because I am, too,” they say, before leaning up to whisper in his ear. “No one else should touch you while I am gone. But you can touch yourself. Especially if you think of me while you do it - I know I will be thinking of you, every night in my tent.”

 

The commander’s cheeks flush and his aura wavers, briefly, before he restrains it. He gives them a sharp look, and a hissed reprimand. But Uthvir has no regrets. They laugh, and tease and cajole and chat with him by turns, until it is finally time for their procession to leave. And then they steal another kiss, and make him promise to look after himself, too, while they are gone. After all, Uthvir only goes into combat once every so often. A military man is always on the cusp of it.

 

They pass through the gate, and into the crossroads, and try to focus on the hunt then. The Great Hunt. To impress Andruil, to make a name for themselves and regain a place at her side.

 

But somehow their thoughts keep returning to the dilemma of what sort of trophy they could bring back for Thenvunin.

 

~

 

_“Uthvir!”_  Thenvunin scolds, as they settle themselves into his lap.

_“Then_ vunin,” they reply, much more playfully. It has been a month since their return from the Great Hunt, although not all of that time was actually  _ _needed__  for their recovery. The worst of their injuries were healed fairly quickly, of course, and the less pressing ones had only taken a day or so to mend. But then there was the matter of socializing and working the hunting circuits, to make certain that their recovery was a well-known fact; and also to display their resilience. A few weeks at Andruil’s summer palace, and then attending one of Elgar’nan’s galas, had surely done the trick.

 

It had meant there was little time from Thenvunin, between that and the lengthy hunt itself. Which was… harder than they might have guessed, actually.

 

Uthvir watches him bristle and glower and nevertheless thoroughly fail to dislodge them from his lap, and they feel a rush of warmth.

 

Silly man.

 

They missed him.

 

“This is a  _public space,”_ he tells them.

 

Technically true, they are in the hallway  _outside_  of his apartment, rather than in it. But it is a very nice corridor. Airy, with a good view of Sylaise’s housing district, and there is no traffic to speak of. Uthvir knows for a fact that Thenvunin’s neighbours are never home; being attendants to Splendour, they keep especially late hours. And they also know that if they try and go  _inside_  Thenvunin’s apartment, their odds of being attacked by an ornery raptor will rise exponentially.

 

No. Better the window seat, they think. It excites him, too; charges the air with some simmering arousal, as they settle more firmly against him. They brush his cheek, and then slide a finger under his chin, and coax his face nearer. Close enough to kiss. His cheeks pink, and his gaze flits away from theirs.

 

“Kiss me?” they request.

 

He comes up short of his usual protests at the request, blush intensifying and throat bobbing, as he flounders just a little. At least until Uthvir smirks at him. Then he scowls, and shifts his hips, and props himself up a bit more pointedly on his arms.

 

“You are  _impossible,”_ he says.

 

“But I only want to kiss you!” they protest.

 

He looks unconvinced.

 

“I am sure you want to do far more than that!” he snaps at them.

 

Well. True.

 

But they can do quite a lot with kissing, too. Their mischievous streak rises up, and their smirk widens as they move both hands to his chest. Despite having braced himself on those big, strong arms of his, Thenvunin topples to his back with very little fuss. Hair tumbling around him, armour all shiny and neat. Uthvir lingers over him. They chose their own outfit today with care to appeal to his sensibilities. Or rather, they picked something they knew he would complain about. Jewelry and ribbons, a short skirt and a sash top, nearly all of it transparent. A little more risque than even they generally aim for in terms of public attire, but it is worth it to see the way his eyes trail over them and then dart hastily away, as they trail a finger down his chest. The sunlight seems to adore the sight of him as much as they do, today.

 

“And what devilish designs do you suppose I have on you, hm?” they ask him.

 

_“Uthvir!”_ he hisses again. They feel a rush of heat at the way a faintest hint of pleading seems to slip itself into his tone, even if he  _is_ scolding them.

 

“Careful,” they warn. “You know how I get when you say my name like that.”

 

Their anklets jangle a little as they lean down towards him. He closes his eyes, and turns his head. But rather than taking the obvious invitation, and putting their teeth to their throat, they follow the tilt of his face and chase his lips. Catching them with their own, to steal a kiss that warms them right down to their toes. Thenvunin does not respond at first. They pull back a little, and carefully turn his face towards them; and then they try again. Moving their lips gently over his own, and after a few moments more, he begins to reciprocate. Answering their movements, and even venturing a tentative hand towards their thigh. Uthvir hums in approval, and draws their kiss out. Rearranging themselves to lean more comfortably against him, after a while, and pressing a thigh up towards his codpiece.

 

Thenvunin draws in a breath, at that, and the sweet note of arousal in the air grows sharper.

 

Uthvir just claims more kisses, though. Nibbling and sucking at his lips. Teasing a few bites, and pulling back, only to sweep back in again. Devouring him, as if he is a treat too tempting to resist for more than an aborted moment. It is a good approach. It makes him gasp, just faintly, and squirm, and slowly - so slowly - start to loosen up beneath their touch.

 

“I could kiss you all day,” they murmur.

 

He seems, to their surprise, mildly alarmed at the prospect.

 

“Don’t you  _ _dare!”__  he hisses. “You tease!”

 

It startles an amused sound from them. Thenvunin himself looks as though he would dearly like to swallow back the accusation.

 

“A tease, am I?” they purr.

 

Thenvunin lifts a hand to his face, and runs it down his features, exuding so much regret that Uthvir almost feels bad for him.

 

“That was not a challenge,” he says, in a tone dry as the desert.

 

Uthvir snorts.

 

“No?”

 

_“No.”_

 

“Are you certain?”

 

He scowls at them. Their lips twitch, and move in close enough to claim another kiss.

 

“Because if you  _want_ me to tease you-”

 

“Who would want that, you insufferable menace?!”

 

Thenvunin’s tone turns into a whisper at press of their mouth against his, as they move their hands to his wrists, and pin his arms back. They keep their kisses gentle, though.  _Teasing,_  as they arrange themselves against him, and try to kiss some plumpness into his thin lips. They like the effect it has, when they suck and nibble him to a ripe, red pair of lips - not quite  _ _plush,__  but still very inviting. It takes a lot of doing, though.

 

By the time they finish, Thenvunin’s breaths are ragged. Their own are not much better. And the spike of arousal in the air is getting  _ _heady,__  with a lot more fervency than they might expect from a single kissing session. Thenvunin’s hips rock upwards, before he catches himself. He freezes.

 

Uthvir grinds back against him, obligingly. Their eyes go half-lidded as they look down at him. Shiny and drenched in such warm, golden sunlight, fit to cover him like a gentle blanket. It makes his over-kissed lips glisten.

 

They want to bite him.

 

They want to press him up against the window and fuck him against it.

 

They want to melt him with sweet words and sweeter touches until he softens like the warm light on his skin.

 

“Just - get on with it!” he demands, with impatience that does not seem nearly as resigned as they suspect he intends.

 

A laugh escapes them.

 

“Gladly,” they agree.

 


	8. Chapter 8

It takes Thenvunin an embarrassingly long while to realize that Uthvir is drunk.

 

In his defense, none of their behaviour seems particularly out of place. The blatant leering, the hands-y-ness, the inappropriate commentary. He __does__  double-take when they all but climb into his lap - the gala is a public event, after all, and usually they do have some discretion. But the evening is late, and Thenvunin had almost not even bothered to come to this event, and the crowds are clearing away. He attributes it all to them just trying to get a rise out of him under the guise of the late hour, until they sigh and he gets a whiff of their breath.

 

He pauses in the midst of smacking their hand off of his chest, and narrows his eyes.

 

“How much have you had to drink?” he asks, suspiciously.

 

Uthvir giggles.

 

That is… really, that is his answer in and of itself, he supposes. Their cheeks are flushed, and their eyes are bright, and now that he’s paying attention, their coordination is not what it normally is either. They nearly fall right off of him - actually __fall.__  He has to catch them to keep from tumbling off of the bench.

 

“I had enough,” they say. “There was a contest, earlier in the evening. I had to defend my honour!”

 

Thenvunin scowls, at that.

 

“Defend your honour by turning yourself into a farce?” he asks. “You should not participate in such challenges. Sobriety is required at events like these, there are - it, it is not safe, otherwise. People might take advantage of your addled senses.”

 

Uthvir sags against him, and Thenvunin really does __have__  to keep his arm around them, to be sure they do not suffer any mishaps. Truly. They are pliant against him, radiating an atypical amount of body heat, and their hands just keep __wandering.__

 

And their grin seems entirely too large.

 

“Aww,” they say. “Are you worried about me, my lovely man?”

 

He lets out an aggravated sigh. Really, they are so _frustrating_  sometimes. No subtlety at all…

 

“I am simply providing you with good counsel,” he says. “If I worry, it is about anyone who is foolhardy enough to try and take advantage of the situation. What with your habit of hiding knives all over the place, you would probably stab them a dozen times without even trying.”

 

Uthvir giggles again, and pats at his chest.

 

“What a sweet thing to say. I like you.”

 

Thenvunin truly wishes they would stop _saying that,_  he has a shockingly little recourse against it. It makes his insides squirm and his cheeks warm and his heart flutter, and it really is such a simplistic sentiment. No poetry or flowers in it, no __effort,__  just thrown out into the wind as if such facts do not even require garnishment. He should be appalled at the lack of effort, really, he should.

 

Scolding drunkards is a futile activity, though.

 

“You would like anyone in this state,” he mutters instead.

 

Uthvir lets out a tremendous sigh at that. They shift their position so that their chin is atop his shoulder. Thenvunin is suddenly glad of his gala armaments; they have a pointy chin, on top of their pointy everything-else.

 

“I wish you liked me back,” they murmur.

 

Thenvunin comes up short, at that.

 

His stomach twists, just a little.

 

“What?” he asks.

 

They draw in a long breath, and let it out with another sigh.

 

“It is alright,” they say. “You can use me until you get sick of me. Everyone does, so you know it is probably wise. I will just enjoy it all in the meanwhile.”

 

The twisting in his stomach worsens, and Thenvunin sinks and shrivels inside, before he turns it all into bristling instead.

 

“What maudlin nonsense,” he tells them, nearly going shrill in his sudden rush of - of _something._ “As if ‘everyone’ does all the same things! If it seems that way then it is clearly because you have been keeping poor company. And how dare you imply that I am taking advantage of the situation? Who has their hands all over _whom,_  I might ask?”

 

Uthvir stares at him for a moment, before the air escapes them in something close to a laugh - but far too intoxicated for a proper one - and they twist around again, and rest their forehead onto him.

 

“That _was_  dour of me, wasn’t it? Whoops,” they mumble.

 

Thenvunin clears his throat.

 

No one else is nearby. And they _are_  very drunk. And his insides absolutely refuse to stop twisting, sinking with something perilously close to guilt. However undeserved it might be. After all, he has reciprocated their courtship, has he not? Accepted gifts and even given some back. And… well, perhaps he does insist upon a good many more caveats than they do. But he is older. More experienced at this sort of thing. Less silly and teasing and self-assured and… romantic…

 

…Which is, perhaps, not actually in keeping with the spirit of courtship itself.

 

He does another quick check around, and straightens his shoulders.

 

“...Besides which, I like you more than sufficiently,” he says.

 

There is a moment of silence.

 

Uthvir blinks up at him.

 

“What?” they ask, and seem, for a moment, several degrees sober.

 

He purses his lips.

 

“You heard me,” he says. “I shall not repeat it for you to mock and make a great production out of.”

 

“Just whisper it, then,” they beseech. Inching their way up, draping themselves more fully against him. Thenvunin clears his throat as he becomes even more _aware_  of their physical presence. Bared skin and flushed cheeks, the hint of a sharp tooth pressing against their bottom lip, the ribbons from their hair trailing over his shoulder. Nails so vivid red against the polished surface of his breastplate.

 

Eyes, watching them from the throngs of the dance floor and banquet table, as a few more of the remaining patrons of the gala seem to note their situation.

 

Thenvunin dislikes the speculative gleam in some of them. As a few hunters look as though they mean to approach, he stands up, and pulls Uthvir along with him.

 

“Certainly not,” he says. “You are drunk, and it is late. It would be remiss of me not to see you home, but then we shall take our leave of one another for the evening.”

 

Uthvir wobbles, somewhat. Blinks, and then squints out towards the gala, before Thenvunin settles an arm around them.

 

To steady them, of course.

 

They do not resist as he begins to move them along, but the deterioration of their motor skills is even more apparent as they try to walk, and nearly trip over their own feet.

 

“You really won’t say it again?” they ask him, mournfully.

 

He lets out an aggravated breath.

 

“Of course you would not simply pick a single type of drunk to be, and at least be conveniently predictable,” he grumbles. “No, you have to _vacillate_  between all this flirtation and giddiness and appalling depression.”

 

Thenvunin thinks he might feel less awkward about it, except that he gets more or less the same when there are too many drinks in him.

 

Uthvir lifts their chin.

 

“I am an _affectionate_  drunk,” they insist. “It is all just a reflection of our relationship! If you just pat me on the head and tell me I am a Very Good Uthvir, I will be pleased as punch. How is that difficult?”

 

They make it away from the balconies of Sylaise’s palace ballrooms, and down towards one of the more discreet corridors. A few other party-goers pass are moving along, too, but they seem absorbed enough in their own purposes. Thenvunin lets out a breath of relief when they finally exit the first set of double-doors, though, and can make their way down to the main floor.

 

“No one ever called me difficult before. Easy. Not difficult,” Uthvir mumbles to themselves.

 

Thenvunin’s scowl deepens.

 

That… __does__  mesh more with their reputation, he supposes. He has heard talk. He could scarcely have avoided it, after their first duel. It seemed like half of Arlathan was intent on telling him all about Uthvir, all about this or that they had heard, about how they were one of Andruil’s favoured when they first got their body. A gift from Ghilan’nain. But she tired of them quickly, and they were demoted, and managed to scrape their way up to a managerial position in Arlathan by dint of some skill and some favour from other sources. _Slept their way up the ranks,_  more than a few had declared, with knowing derision. People were supposed to be appointed for merit, but there was, of course, always the option of manipulating the appointees with other ‘merits’.

 

Thenvunin had taken such talk at face value, initially. He feels a fresh stab of guilt at that. For all their many faults - and there are plenty - Uthvir is also more than fit for their position. And he knows better than many how few people from the lower ends of the system actually ‘manipulate’ their way to the top - more often, it is the people on top exploiting the system to _force_  any who would wish to progress to grant them favours in exchange for it.

 

Uthvir wobbles, and Thenvunin is overtaken by an awful sense of worry. Uthvir is capable, but then, so is Thenvunin. And how much harder must it be, at times, to live in this city, with a reputation like theirs?

 

_Easy._

 

Easy prey.

 

Thenvunin leans in, sorely tempted to… he does not even know what he is tempted to, in truth. It does not feel quite like his usual, inconvenient sort of temptations. Uthvir smells like citrus and spices, like the wine they have drunk too much of. Their smile is too wide and red is not the most fashionable colour this season, they look nearly out of place in the halls of Sylaise’s palace. Too real for the airy dreams of floating, crystal halls.

 

One of their hands slides down to his backside, and while the material his is wearing is sufficient to deter their grip, they still venture it anyway. A pointed _squeeze_ and a laugh that has his head shooting up and his face turning red.

 

_“Uthvir!”_ he objects.

 

They grin at him.

 

“Come stay with me,” they request. “It is a rest day tomorrow. I will make it worth your while; I have some new toys, and I am not _so_ drunk that I cannot find my way around a few activities. I will suck your cock for you; maybe this will be the time it finally gets you to relax. And then tomorrow we can see how m-”

 

Thenvunin clamps a hand over their mouth, and sucks in a sharp breath.

 

They kiss his palm.

 

He huffs, but does not release them straight away.

 

“ _ _Stop that,”__  he insists, instead. “Either you behave, or I will absolutely _not_  come home with you.”

 

They make a sound of complaint, and their brows drop. But when Thenvunin finally lets them go, they grin at him again. Bright and uncommonly guileless, lacking their usual smirks, if not their usual libidinous _comments._

 

“I will ‘behave’ - until we are at my apartment,” they say.

 

He sighs.

 

“I am not having sex with you while you are drunk,” he insists. “I have _standards.”_

 

“Good,” they reply, turning, to his surprise, a bit more serious in their countenance. They pat his chest, and lean more of their weight against him. The gown they are in sways, and Thenvunin notices - not for the first time - just how high the slits on it are. “Good, good Thenvunin. We can just cuddle, that works too. Nice and _snug.”_

 

_“Uthvir!”_ he hisses, taken aback by the sudden rush of warmth in him. How do they make _cuddling_  sound nearly more inappropriate than - than their other suggestion?!

 

“What?” they ask him cheekily. As if they do not know.

 

Thenvunin turns his gaze skywards, and counts slowly backwards from ten.


	9. Chapter 9

Thenvunin arrives at lunch dressed in soft, casual clothes, rather than his usual daywear.

 

Uthvir is not actually surprised today, though. Firstly, because it is a rest day; and secondly, because the Arlathan’s environmental charms have been suffering some difficulties since early morning. Nothing too perilous, but enough so that the summer sun has been baking the streets far more than usual. There was a sacrifice in the lower districts today, to get the systems back in working order for the time being. Some poor low-ranking follower of Sylaise. Uthvir had been nervous, just for a moment. Thenvunin is certainly not low-ranking, but…

 

Well.

 

Anyways, the temperature has been slowly easing back to normal, but most of the Arlathan’s gleaming surfaces and elegant buildings are not meant to withstand the unfiltered elements. The gleam from Sylaise’s palace had heated the roads, in the span of a few hours, with enough intensity that the streets are still sweltering. Uthvir has the windows shut and shuttered, and cooling charms placed on all the carpets, and they had almost thought that Thenvunin might send some apologies rather than actually make their date.

 

But here he is. In as loose and as little clothing as he might get away with, some tension escaping his shoulders as Uthvir ushers him into the apartment. He steps onto the cool carpets and sighs in relief.

 

“Oh, it is nice in here,” he murmurs.

 

They close and lock the door, and feel a rush of satisfaction.

 

“It is,” they confirm. “You can stay the night if you like; I imagine the streets will be much less harrowing in the morning.”

 

Thenvunin agrees with enough ease that they are almost curious to go see how bad it really is. They had thought it was improving, but perhaps not…?

 

“You wouldn’t happen to have the gossip on what caused all this, would you?” they wonder, as they tug Thenvunin towards the seating area. They cast a few cooling charms on some of the cushion, discreetly, and are rewarded with another sigh from him as he drops onto them.

 

“I would, actually,” he tells them. Coming to his ease in a sprawl they cannot help up appreciate. He is wearing white, mostly, but with a gold and purple sash that drapes prettily around him. Uthvir is sorely tempted to touch him. But they settled down across from him instead, gathering up the bowls of chilled fruit that they had the foresight to retrieve earlier this morning. They set them in front of their guest with a flourish, before dropping onto their own cushions.

 

“Do tell, then.”

 

“Well, I really shouldn’t…” Thenvunin dithers. “Do these grapes have seeds…?”

 

“No,” they reply.

 

He eagerly scoops a cluster onto his plate.

 

“You were saying?” they ask.

 

“I was…? Oh, yes. Well, it was Falon’Din’s estate renovations, of course. To no one’s surprise,” he admits, hesitations apparently forgotten. His eyes close for a moment as he pops a chilled grape into his mouth. “Technically the estate is outside of the city limits, and must maintain its own environmental wards. But one of his architects must have decided to try and covertly extend some of the charms out far enough to cover the new gate.”

 

“Bold move,” Uthvir murmurs, and suddenly wishes they knew more about architecture. They fill a pair of goblets with ice water, and Thenvunin makes an appreciative noise at that, too. He drains half the goblet in one go.

 

“A foolish one,” he asserts when he is done. He sounds much more refreshed, and claims some melon slices for his plate. “June’s people noticed straight away, of course, but the disruption was enough to cause all of __this__  trouble. And now My Lady has had to sacrifice one of our own to rectify the situation. She is going to hold this over her brother’s head, and rightly so.”

 

“Well, of course,” Uthvir agrees. Falon’Din will likely be forced to pay an ever more dear price, when all is said and done. “But why did Falon’Din not simply offer up the architect responsible?” they wonder. That would be more like him.

 

Thenvunin shrugs.

 

“Contrariness?” he suggests. “I heard it said - though of course it is only hearsay - that the individual responsible was found to be of a treasonous mindset, and may have even intended for the disruption to be far worse. In that case, whoever it was would be needed for interrogation. Far too long to leave the city just baking under all that sun.”

 

“A revolutionary?” Uthvir asks, brows raising.

 

Thenvunin clears his throat, and seems to realize how much he has just said. He hastily pops a melon slice into his mouth.

 

“A rumour, only. If that,” he insists. “You know how imaginations can run wild at times like these. I wouldn’t credit it much.”

 

“Of course, of course. This is all just gossip,” Uthvir agrees. They glance down, and happen to notice the redness on the bottom of Thenvunin’s feet then. A redness that has not receded, even against the cool carpet. With a slight frown, they move towards him. He blinks, and makes an aborted gesture, before he realizes where their hand is going. They turn his ankle just a little, and spy some light burns - not enough to blister, but enough to linger.

 

They cluck their tongue.

 

“Did you realize you burned your feet?” they ask him.

 

Thenvunin swallows.

 

“No,” he says. “Well, I… I mean, I realized it was far too hot, after the first block. But I started levitating, then, and I didn’t think I had __burned__ my feet…”

 

They let go of him, and give the side of his leg a pat.

 

“It's not bad,” they assure him. “A light salve and a little healing magic should do the trick. But I would keep off of it for now. Excuse me a moment.”

 

They get up, and head for the apartment’s little water closet. The salve they need is in a small basket, hanging above the self-cleaning chamber pot. They fetch it out, and when they return, coax Thenvunin into lounging on his side while they gently rub the promised salve and magic over the angry, red skin on the soles of his feet.

 

He makes a startled sound of relief, and then bites his lip. Uthvir swallows at the rush of heat they feel at it. At some point, they seem to have become intensely aware of __every__  little sound that Thenvunin makes when they touch him. It sets a low heat simmering in their loins. But there has been enough heat already today; and so they put it aside, for now. Focusing on the burns instead, until the red has dulled to a healthier pink. Then they leave to go put everything away, and wash their hands, before coming back.

 

Thenvunin’s eyes are closed, as he lies against the cushions. His grip on his goblet has grown lax.

 

Uthvir settles back across from him. It makes no matter if he spills a little. It is just water, after all. They let him rest, only nudging him a bit after a few minutes, to try and get him to eat a little more. The day’s gossip is more than enough to keep their attention occupied. Revolutionary intrigues are also the more dangerous sort, of course, so they doubt they will stick their nose in too far. Particularly without much reason to bother. Someone in Thenvunin’s position would be unlikely to get called into such things; the peacekeepers will handle it.

 

But they will keep one eye on that side of things. Insofar as they can. When sacrifices start to crop up unexpectedly, Uthvir finds themselves feeling their lack of prestige a little more keenly. They suspect most elves around their rank do. On the one hand, being of middle rank means they are neither so expendable as to be tossed onto an altar as a matter of convenient, nor so close to the evanuris as to be chosen as a symbolic gesture of costliness. But their rank also means that if they should offend the wrong person, or fail at the wrong task, then there is nothing to keep a black mark off of their reputation. And little recourse to mend things, if they fall far enough. And then they _will_ be on the bottom rungs…

 

Not a pleasant train of thought.

 

Andruil is unlikely to get involved in such things. But Sylaise…

 

Uthvir’s gaze drifts over towards Thenvunin.

 

They need to get themselves better established. Then they will have more sway; then they can serve Andruil more effectively, and keep all their associates of varying ranks more secure. Keep them from seeming like convenient targets, or disposable persons.

 

Thenvunin has dropped off to sleep, it seems. They carefully reach over, plucking up his goblet and moving aside his plate. They tuck the food back onto the serving tray, and put it aside again. Another charm to keep it cold; but they are starting to get tired from all of the casting. A nap does not seem like a poor idea. They take up a few more cushions, and settle down next to Thenvunin. Checking him for other signs of possible over-heating. But his skin is cool to the touch. He barely stirs as they lie down with him. Listening to the distant, chime-like hum that the newly-patched wards have sent spilling through the air, and watching the light shift through the crack at the bottom of their window covers, until they drift off.

 

They doze for an hour or so. Not really __sleeping,__  but not entirely wakeful, either. It is a nice, restful little slice of time, that ends when Thenvunin starts to stir.

 

Uthvir wraps their arms around him, then. Trailing hands up his chest and pressing more firmly to his back, and nuzzling at the nearest patch of skin.

 

He huffs.

 

“I have to relieve myself,” he insists.

 

Uthvir nips him, before reluctantly letting him go.

 

“Careful on your feet,” they murmur.

 

“They feel fine,” he assures them. But they watch through half-lidded eyes as he steps gingerly, taking care for the first little while, before walking more normally to their water closet. They stretch out, then, and contemplate the options for a quiet afternoon. Their robe feels slippery against their skin, and the low, simmering heat that Thenvunin’s sighs ignited an hour ago has lingered. Turning into a pleasantly expectant arousal. They undo their sash, and let the front of their robe fall open. There _is_  that new trick they wanted to try… or would it be too heated for this occasion…?

 

Their mind wanders, as their hands wander down the length of their body, too.

 

Perhaps he will be in no mood for it, though. They opt not to greet him with the sight of their exposed arousal when he comes back, and after a moment, pull their robe shut. Not bothering to belt it again, until Thenvunin comes back out.

 

He walks over, and then hesitates at the cushions.

 

Uthvir sits up a little.

 

“Did you want to finish lunch?” they offer, gesturing towards the food.

 

He glances over. Shakes his head, just a little.

 

“I should… I should probably go,” he reasons.

 

Uthvir snorts.

 

“You should _not,”_ they counter. Letting their robe slip down one shoulder, as the prop themselves up a bit. “You should consider yourself ensnared. Caught in my lair. A fine catch for me, on a disorienting summer day.”

 

Thenvunin swallows, and without his armour on, manages to look smaller than usual. A note of arousal escapes him. And when he does not immediately attempt to pull it back, Uthvir’s lips curl in triumph, and they stand up. Watching his eyes flit down to their exposed front. Watching his cheeks pink, so pleasantly, and his throat bob again.

 

They make their way over to him.

 

He takes a step back. But heads for the wall, rather than the doorway. The better for them to crowd him up against it, and slide their hands up his thighs. Giving in to the possessive, protective streak that has been building up in them all day.

 

They really __were__  worried. Just for a moment, this morning, but it was an awful moment. Jarring, there and gone but still lingering like a bitter aftertaste.

 

“What do you think?” they ask him. Moving close enough to kiss, and dropping their voice to a whisper. He stares at their lips, before shutting his eyes.

 

“Thenvunin,” they say, until he opens them again. “Can I have you?”

 

They feel his breath.

 

“...Yes,” he says. Yielding an instant before they crush their lips to his, and grind their hips up against him, and fumble to find the right ties for his clothes to get them off of him. They had just gotten used to the fastenings for his armour styles, too, and despite appearances, this lighter outfit seems equally as fussy. Thenvunin makes a _sound_  as their mouth slides from his, though, and it pulls a growl from them in answer as their arousal spikes twice over.

 

They drag him to the floor, instead.

 

“I should keep you forever,” they say, unthinking. Leaning in to steal another kiss as his eyes widen, and then squeeze shut. They bite his bottom lip, and cradle his face between their hands. Going at him until their breaths turn ragged, and he is panting between kisses. “I would, I would. I will, if you let me. Just keep you with me.”

 

Thenvunin’s breaths stutter. Uthvir’s hands fumble with his clothes again, as the air turns heady. Until they give up and just settle for shucking his skirts up, and make a delightful discovery.

 

He is not wearing any smallclothes.

 

No underthings at __all.__

 

“Why, _Thenvunin…”_ they purr.

 

He turns his head aside. But that just lets them get at his neck.

 

“It was __hot,”__  he protests. “Do not-”

 

“Of course,” they agree, cutting off his excuses, and taking him in hand. His cock is not fully hard yet, but it is certainly on its way. His breaths stutter again as they give him a light squeeze, and then gentle their touch. Teasing him with their hand even as they sink their teeth into the skin of his neck, hard enough to draw blood. He bites off a sound at that, and flails his hands awkwardly.

 

They should do this properly, they think. But for right now they want him too much, want the raggedness of it too dearly. Want to lick the blood from his skin and tease their nails down his cock, and then pump him with their hand until he comes on the interior of his pretty purple-gold sash. So they do. They whisper his name and every filthy compliment that crosses their mind, and every so often pause in their strokes to give him another possessive squeeze.

 

He comes on the fourth of those, hips jerking, one hand gripping their arm, a soft moan escaping his guard as his pleasure ripples outwards like a wave. Uthvir basks in it for a moment. Enjoying the ragged, spent look of him for as long as they can spare the patience to. Which ends up being just until he realizes he is still clutching them, and then pulls his hand away.

 

They smirk, then, and finally figure out where the proper __ties__  in his outfit are.

 

And his shinguards, too. They pull those off first, as it suddenly occurs to them that he is probably uncomfortable in them by now. They clatter where Uthvir tosses them aside, more loudly than intended; and Thenvunin sits up halfway to glare at them.

 

“Do _not_  ruin my clothing!” he insists. “It hardly grows on trees, and I cannot afford to be taking outfits to the tailors every week for mending.”

 

Uthvir raises their hands in capitulation.

 

“Sorry,” they say. “I will try and contain myself.”

 

Ironic, considering how they are coming out of their robe at the moment. Thenvunin seems to catch that himself, if the way his gaze flits down to their cock is any indication. He swallows, and looks aside again. Flopping, and letting Uthvir resume their quest to undress him. It is much easier with a clear head; the fabrics are loose and come away once the ties are undone, leaving Thenvunin in just his skin. Juxtaposed against the rich reds and bronzes of their cushions.

 

“How lovely,” they murmur. They press a kiss to the bite mark on his neck, and then lift him up.

 

Thenvunin is heavier than Uthvir, but not heavier than a wyvern; a little magic, and he scarcely weighs anything at all. His arms tighten around their neck, and he flails just a little in surprise. Surprise and a flare of pleasure, in the mix that always seems to strike him when they do this.

 

They squeeze the parts of him that their hands can reach, and make something of a show of carting him off to their bedchamber. Chuckling with dark promise and nipping at one of his ears, as his hands flex against their shoulders.

 

“You look very pretty, clothed in nothing but your own pleasure,” they inform him.

 

The sound of protest he makes comes out strangled.

 

“You - you - just - agh!” he says, and then, to their amusement, _pinches_  them. “Do not say such things!”

 

“But I am only paying you a compliment!” they protest. Lips twitching.

 

He scowls at them.

 

“Just - stop it!”

 

Uthvir sighs.

 

“If you insist,” they concede. “I suppose I shall have to find other ways of conveying my admiration for you. Artwork, perhaps. Or music. Obviously compliment-free, but there is a chance I could still convey my ardent longing via notes and tone. Or should I turn to painting…? Hmm. I am not much good at that. No, I think I will go with something as equally direct as a compliment.”

 

They drop him onto their bed, and with a snap of their fingers, call up the ropes from beneath it. Letting their expression turn to a wicked smirk.

 

“Like fucking you senseless.”

 

Thenvunin makes a sound that Uthvir would be hard-pressed to classify, before reaching up to them, and putting a hand over their mouth.

 

“You are __impossible!”__  he accuses.

 

They kiss his palm, and something niggles at the back of their mind. Have they done that before? Well, probably. Thenvunin’s face colours even further, and his expression wavers just a little. More than they might expect, from such a simple and predictable gesture. They repeat it, catching his hand, and pressing a few kisses to the backs of his knuckles, too.

 

“I am not good at being quiet,” they admit.

 

He purses his lips. Then lets out a long sigh, and hesitantly extends his fingers to brush against their cheek. The little gesture catches them off-guard. There and gone again, as he hastily reclaims his hand, and curls it against his chest.

 

“No, you are not,” he agrees, with a disdainful sniff. “I suppose I should not expect it, by now.”

 

They hesitate.

 

The tone is… strange.

 

“We do not have to, you know,” they venture, carefully. “I mean, I obviously wish to. But if you do not, then you __can__  simply leave. I did not mean…. I would not hold it against you, Thenvunin. You may reject me as you please. I would never tell anyone the particulars of our dalliances. I am not like that.”

 

Thenvunin’s frown shifts. Uthvir waits for a response, shifting back to loom a little less __intently__  over him. He shifts in discomfort, but the source of the discomfort is less clear. After a while they determine that they should get up, and read his lack of response as a sufficient ‘no’ - but before they can get far with that, he closes a hand around their wrist.

 

“I know you are not like that,” he says. Then he lets out a long breath, and releases his hold on them. Brow furrowed. “Or… I think you are not. I _hope_  you are not. My… my judgement has not always been wise, in this regard… my heart is foolish.”

 

His voice drops to a whisper at the last admission.

 

Uthvir’s own heart swells. Their breath stalls, for a moment, as they are struck by the implications. What he is not-quite-admitting to.

 

_I am falling in love with you,_  they think.

 

The words stick in their own throat. Still jammed in where their Lady had thrust them back, the first time they had offered them. Laughter they can still hear in their ears, and the anger in her eyes, irrefutable and inexplicable. Even as she smiled.

 

_Of course you love me._

__

She had not believed them. They could see it. She had been angry because she thought they were lying, that they were only saying what they thought would please her. And try as they might, they could never convince her otherwise.

 

She tired of them quickly, after that. _You bore me, Sympathy._

 

What if Thenvunin does not believe them either? What if they say it too soon, or the wrong way, and he thinks they are just lying to manipulate him?

 

They look at him and feel determination settle into them.

 

They will prove it to him. So that when they can say it, when they _should_  say it, he will already be so full of the feeling that there will be no room for doubts. Or at least, none that cannot be assuaged by words and touches, and sentiments set to drift upon the air between them. If he should give them the chance, anyway. If he does not grow tired of them before then.

 

Reaching over, they brush a stray lock of hair away from his face.

 

“I will take care with any bit of yourself you entrust to me. Heart included,” they promise.

 

Thenvunin closes his eyes, and sags against the pillows on their bed. He runs a hand down his face.

 

“You truly mean it?” he asks them. “You are not just toying with me?”

 

Uthvir’s heart clenches. They cannot resist the urge to touch him, then. To lean in and press their lips to his forehead, and get their arms around him somewhat. To brush their leg against the side of his own, and radiate as much assurance as they possibly can. It makes the colour in his skin rise again, makes his hips shift and makes him clear his throat, even as the emotions slipping out of him feel so tentatively sweet.

 

“I truly mean it,” they promise.

 

There is a pause, as Thenvunin seems to consider something.

 

Then he leans up, and very quickly, presses his lips to theirs.

 

Uthvir blinks. They barely have a chance to appreciate the press of lips to their own before Thenvunin drops back down, and immediately covers his face with his hands. They lift their fingers to their lips, and find themselves unexpectedly charmed. Even as the poor man tenses horribly in the few seconds of silence that follow his gesture.

 

“...That was adorable,” they blurt.

 

He removes one of his hands from his face, and smacks the side of their arm with it.

 

“Do _not_ be insufferable!” he demands. “You will make me regret it. I already regret it. You are never going to shut up about this now, are you?”

 

A laugh escapes them.

 

“Never,” they decide. “It was too sweet of a kiss to ignore. I shall mention it all the time now. Thenvunin’s adorable, passionate little kiss…”

 

“It was hardly a peck!” he insists.

 

“All the better to tease me with,” they declare. Offering him a wink, when he dares to look at them again.

 

“How dare you?! If anyone is a tease here, it is the person who keeps talking about fucking me and then dithering around and doing anything but!” he snaps. And then he seems to actually realize what he has said, and gets a look as though he is trying to swallow his own tongue back. Uthvir’s grin widens, and their heart speeds. They feel giddy with the warmth of his declarations - however atypical they might actually sound.

 

“Hmm. You make a good point,” they concede, grinning wickedly at him, as they brush a certain part of their anatomy ‘accidentally’ up against his hip. “Does that mean you want me to fuck you?”

 

Thenvunin bites his lip.

 

They lean in a little closer again, sorely tempted to take over that particular task.

 

_“Then_ vunin…” they purr. “Do you want me to fuck you? Hmm? Do you want me to tie you up, pin you down, smack your ass and give it to you until you cannot take it anymore? Should I use my mouth? My cock? Should I ride you hard against the sheets? Should I go slow and gentle and soft instead? I just need a hint, just one tiny little piece of inspiration, my dearest lover…”

 

He lets out a long, shuddering breath, and glowers at them. Pursing his lips just shy of another kiss, while Uthvir waits with their very best expression of playful anticipation.

 

“Can you not just do what you want?” he asks them.

 

They chuckle.

 

“If you like, I certainly can,” they agree, and spare him any further teasing by kissing him again. They wonder if he knows that he made a fair request; if he even realizes that he can absolutely ask them to do what they want to him? Perhaps. Perhaps not. They suppose they will have to talk about it, but later. For now there is too much heat in the air. Too much tension, too many words bringing things to the edge of where they are comfortable with them. So they bite his neck again instead, and tie him up. Open him up, too, with one hand dragging their nails across the insides of his thighs, and the other teasing his entrance, as they let him hide his face in their pillows.

 

The oil they use smells like roses, and the cloth they seal over his entrance is slick and thin and tingles when they press their tongue to it. Thenvunin gasps, outright. His thighs tense, and a rush of renewed arousal reaches them, as his cock hardens again.

 

They hum in approval, and stroke him with their tongue again. Laving at him until he crushes a pillow to his face to stifle himself, and __oh,__  what a marvelous response. They press their tongue into him, along with the slick, shimmery barrier cloth, and work it in slow circles that draw sounds from him which even the pillow cannot disguise. Even so; they are surprised when he comes at the barest stroke of their hand, spilling across the bedspread and all but _keening_  as they lick tingling cloth against his inner walls.

 

It is enough to make them forget their plans for a toy, in the fervency that overcomes them. That __sound.__  They want more. Want to hear his pleasure, want to draw out every pant and gasp and curse and plea that they possibly can. They put their clean hand to their mouth and bite down on their thumb, just hard enough to draw a droplet of blood. Then they smear it on the underside of their own cock, and with a whisper set __it__  to tingling. Nearly the same spell as is on the cloth. With a heated growl they pull the barrier away, and grasp Thenvunin’s hips, and thrust inside of him. Dragging the sensation through him, and across their own skin, too, as the trail of blood ignites their nerves and makes everything feel that much __sweeter.__

 

“Ah!” Thenvunin cries. _“Uthvir!”_

 

They grip his hips, and take him roughly. Pressing their sharpened nails hard enough to scratch, until they decide they __need__  to see him. To see his face, and his cock, and all the rest of him laid out before them. Then they pull out, and roll him over. Securing his bound wrists over his head, and pushing his legs back, before they thrust back in. He turns his face towards his arm. His cock hardens, steadily, as they thrust in and out of him. Their bed creaks. His cheeks turn bright red, while his seed still stains his stomach. Uthvir has to slow down, eventually, to keep themselves from coming sooner than they would like. But as every ragged breath and broken-off moan slips past his guard, they find themselves compelled at once to draw it out and to press all the harder.

 

“Thenvunin,” they groan, themselves. “You feel _so good.”_

 

Oh, whoops. No compliments. They forgot.

 

But Thenvunin does not seem inclined to object, as they thrust into him again. His arms tug against his restraints, just a little. He bites his lip, and closes his eyes - and then opens them again as they slow down to a near stop. Just in time for them to thrust back inside of him. Then they go wide, and wider still when Uthvir closes a hand around his length.

 

They tease the head of his cock for a few strokes, before gripping his hips again, as all the heat rushes up and burns through them. Then they lift him, and fuck him in rough, deliberate thrusts, that make his cock bounce with the sound of flesh-against-flesh, his entrance so hot and soft around them that they know they will not last long. Once, twice more, and then on a last erratic thrust they come. Letting their pleasure wash through them and out into the air around them, bright enough to make both of them tingle.

 

Thenvunin gasps and squirms in their hold.

 

“Uthvir,” he says. “Uthvir, _please -!”_

 

The plea nearly drives them over another edge again. Uthvir thinks that if it __could__ , it certainly __would.__  But they could never deny it. They close a hand over his cock and stroke him to his third completion, firm and deliberate until he comes over their fist, while they are still inside of him.

 

The aftermath hits them all in a rush. Heavy breaths, sweaty bodies; the scent of sex so strong in the air that it’s nearly concerning. They pull out of him, and brush their fingers against his entrance. Checking for winces, but Thenvunin just makes a vague sound that they recognize as ‘it is too much’, and they retract the touch again. Instead lazily kissing their way back up his body, and mustering the energy to untie him, before they simply flop across him.

 

Then they nuzzle at his jaw, and stroke somewhat incoherently at his side.

 

“Thank you,” they say.

 

He mumbles something they do not quite catch, although it sounds like he is trying to be grumpy. There is none of it in his countenance, though, as he settles a hand over their shoulder, and the two of them tangle together and catch their breaths.

 

When the stars have faded from the backs of their eyes, Uthvir turns Thenvunin’s face towards them, and presses another kiss to his lips.

 

“Alright?” they ask.

 

He sighs gustily. But it seems a contended sound. And he nods, and strokes a hand down their shoulder.

 

A few more kisses and caresses, and the aftermath of their exploits begins to work its way into another slow, simmering heat. Uthvir lets their hand start stroking a bit lower down Thenvunin’s body. They push aside their robe, which now feels rumpled and unpleasant, and suck at the sensitive skin behind one of his ears. Thenvunin murmurs their name. If he means it to be scolding, though, it utterly fails, as the tone seems much closer to _fond_  than anything.

 

They hum in appreciation, and nip at his earlobe.

 

And they wonder…

 

Well.

 

Sometimes the direct approach seems to work best with this man. So a few kisses later, they roll both of them over. So that Thenvunin is forced to prop himself above them in order to keep his balance. They shift their shape, and twine their legs around him; and do their very best to look _inviting_  themselves.

 

“Want to?” they ask.

 

Thenvunin hesitates.

 

His lips part a little, and his eyes dart up and down their form. His arms tremble a bit, as he holds himself up. Uthvir trails an ankle against him, and it makes him shiver. His cock presses up against their sex - soft, still, but if the atmosphere is any indication, not indefinitely.

 

After a few moments of visible indecision, Thenvunin meets their gaze.

 

His throat bobs.

 

His eyes gentle.

 

Uthvir is still not quite expecting it when he leans down and gives them the softest kiss they have ever gotten. Sweet and slow, coaxing their lips apart but venturing no further, as he applies just enough pressure to move them. Affection curls across their skin. Stealing away their own breath, and aching like a healing salve on a over-strained muscle.

 

Their mouth trembles, and their thoughts scatter to the winds. Their heart skips a beat when he pulls back, and smiles at them.

 

“I do,” he says. “But… not yet. I am not so bold as you, when it comes to these things.”

 

Uthvir swallows.

 

“Was it too much?” they wonder, seriously. Not that they have not done such things before, but… perhaps they ought not to have?

 

Thenvunin shakes his head, though.

 

“No. But doing and have-done-to are not… they are not the same. And I can be clumsy at these things. I do not want to hurt you,” he admits.

 

Their heart clenches again.

 

“Sweet man,” they accuse. “I can take a little rough treatment. You needn’t worry so.”

 

“But I do,” he insists.

 

They look at him a moment more, and then nod their head in understanding. Not that they really __do__  understand - he knows how to control his body, and his magic, and he certainly knows how to have sex. But they will not press it further. They are more than pleased to have him any which-way, come to it; and as a note of doubt slips into his own expression, they role him over again. Smirking at him in a way that seems to reassure him, almost, as they settle on top.

 

“No matter,” they say. “We can do it this way.”

 

He leans back, and closes his eyes. And they take him for the next round of their affections.


	10. Chapter 10

Ordinarily, it has been Thenvunin’s experience that being in a sexual relationship at least means that he is not actively thinking about sex a lot of the time.

 

Because he is having it. The needs are being met. The matter is being ‘seen to’, ergo, he is usually able to spend the rest of his time doing his duties and engaging in his various hobbies without much concern for the frustrating over-sensitivity of his libido.

 

Once again, though, Uthvir seems to be intent on making themselves an exception to the rule.

 

It has been precisely _one day_  since Thenvunin last had an orgasm, and as he retires to his apartment for the evening, he feels as if no one has touched him for a hundred years. He has not even _seen_  Uthvir today. They had to go out of the city to oversee a shipment of erotic topiaries from a gardener in Mythal’s territories, for some party or other that they are helping to plan. Thenvunin hardly sees why the shipment was important to enough to demand their personal oversight, but it is only a day. Getting worked up over a day would be ridiculous.

 

In fact, Uthvir being gone for a day is probably to his benefit. Goodness knows he got a lot of work done while they were off on that Great Hunt of theirs. A day of pure, distraction-free productivity on his part is probably long overdue. Really, he is glad that he will be able to go about his affairs without having to make time for lunching with them, or wonder what they are planning to do to him this evening, or have them hanging off of his arm and playing up their ‘delicate flower’ act, while covertly sticking their hands into his clothes when it seems like no one is looking.

 

_Finally,_  Thenvunin had told himself this morning. _A chance to focus._

 

He has scarcely felt more frustrated in a day.

 

He blames his libido. And Uthvir. They have both conspired in some unholy bargain to render Thenvunin an incoherent disaster even when they are not in the same city. By the time he gets home all of his clothing feels too tight and heavy, and his skin too hot, and - and dammit all but he needs a good, solid _fucking_  before he goes to absolute pieces. He barely manages to see to his birds before he gives up, barricades himself in the bedroom, and strips.

 

He is alone, after all. It is not as if he needs to consider anyone else’s opinion about it. Well, maybe Screecher’s complaints at being shut out, but Thenvunin can make it up to his bird later. He reaches for himself, already hard, and leans against the wall as he works to take the edge off. Stroking himself quickly and efficiently, as is usual, until he comes in a rush of hollow pleasure. Bizarrely unsatisfying, as he spills onto the carpet.

 

He lets out a long breath, and stares at the mess. Skin crawling a little, gut churning just a bit, before he goes and gets a charmed towel to help wipe it up with.

 

Afterwards, he stands naked in his bedroom, technically ‘sated’ but _wholly_  unsatisfied.

 

_It is not good enough,_  is all he can think.

 

This is how Uthvir has done it, of course. The devious little creature. They have gone and gotten him so accustomed to mind-blowing orgasms that mundane ones are no longer sufficient.

 

Well, the joke is on them. Thenvunin can most _certainly_  have mind-blowing orgasms without Uthvir around to help, after all. He nods at himself, and determinedly heads over to his bed. To make himself comfortable in his usual position for such things. He discreetly arranges the blankets, and gets his pillows arrange to his satisfaction. Reclines against them, and starts using his imagination, as he waits for himself to recover.

 

There are plenty of scenarios he can imagine, of course. Daydreams suitable to the purpose of titillation, however impractical they would be in real life. And past encounters to draw upon, too. Thenvunin decides he is going to cast his mind back, to some of his older dalliances. Maybe one of his times with Venavismi. Like that time… um… well, that time at the fountain.

 

Yes, good, that was a pleasant interlude. They had both stroked one another off, too, so it works with the feel of his hand against himself. Vena grinning and leaning against the stonework, the moment stolen illicitly in an absolutely tedious lull in both of their duties. Nevertheless carrying with it the possibility of discovery. Thenvunin had fantasized about being discovered plenty of times, thought of some figure happening upon them but rather than reporting them, simply joining in. Maybe one of Vena’s scouting friends. A lithe, sultry sort, with a stronger grip than one might expect. Coming up and pulling Thenvunin into their lap, growling possessive reprimands at him for starting without them. Taking him in hand, firm and familiar. Their teeth sharp at his ear. But teasing, as their own arousal strains against his backside. Dark red nails contrasted against the flushed skin of his cock. Breath hot at his neck.

 

_Mine, all mine, you should know better than to think you could come without me,_  the scout growls at him in Uthvir’s voice.

 

Thenvunin takes his hand off of himself with a curse.

 

_…Truly?_

 

He lets out a ragged breath, cock at half-mast, and sits up again. Rubbing a hand at his forehead, as his skin tingles and the arousal in him grows more persistent. More _interested._  As if to say ‘wait go back to that, that was working’. Thenvunin wars with himself. Scoffs at himself.

 

There is no one here to see. But it is the principle of the thing. He does not _need_ Uthvir for this. Certainly not. He was having sex before they were born, and has been _not_  having sex for longer than they have been alive, and… well… that train of thought doesn’t really help anything. He stares at his traitorous body parts, and lets out a curse.

 

Bandits.

 

He is going to think about _bandits._

 

That always works.

 

With a slight shove, he knocks himself off of the bed and onto the floor. Letting himself land a little roughly, to feel the sting of it in his knees.

 

_Well well well, what do we have here? A commander far prettier than the others,_  an imagined bandit purrs. On a remote patrol road. The brigands having escaped justice from the empire, fleeing into the wilds to live a life of crime and debauchery. Rough hands grip Thenvunin’s arms. Pawing at him, pulling away his clothes and armour. Stroking at his hair, and tossing him to the ground in a field of soft grass. He moves closer to the middle of the room, as he imagines three of them leering at him. All of them big and brawny, far stronger than him. Ragged enough to highlight his own good-looks, to make him seem like a beautiful gemstone, lost in amid a barrel of coal.

 

The bandits argue over who is going to have him first. They each try to take him only to shove one another aside. Thenvunin strokes himself as he imagines out the scenario. The biggest one seizing him at last, pushing his head down and his hips up.

 

_Stop._

 

His hand stills on himself at the crack of a sharp voice. A short sword halts the bandit, as it looms threateningly near to some very sensitive parts. A fourth bandit enters the scene. More lithe than the others. Compact, precision where the rest are all brute force. The cool metal of a blade presses against Thenvunin’s backside, as the other bandits move away with the kind of wary deference only afforded to one who has proved themselves quite capable and dangerous. Perhaps not through the usual means, but still effectively enough.

 

Nails trail down his back.

 

_This is far too beautiful a prize for the likes of you,_  the fourth bandit says. Then they lean closer, and nip with sharp teeth at Thenvunin’s ear. _And as for you… you should know better than to try and come without me, Commander._

__

He shudders. His touch still unmoving on himself, even as his arousal redoubles.

 

_“Uthvir…!”_  he protests.

 

The voice in his imagination laughs, and the new bandit closes a hand over top of his own.

 

_Here. Let me help._

 

He starts stroking himself again. But not as fast as he would like. The touch restrained, teasingly so. Mimicking the one in his memory, that maddening habit of theirs, as he bites his lips and misses the feel of warm skin against his own. His backside feels cold in the open air. But his skin is flushed, and the other imagined bandits fall away, until the fantasy has deteriorated into just being Uthvir touching him in a field.

 

When he comes again, though, it is in a rush that makes his heart speed up and his hips thrust, his free arm straining to prop himself up as his comes on the carpeting again. And for a split second then he imagines Uthvir lying beneath him, so that his seed spills onto their skin instead. Their lips curled in a smug smirk, gaze hooded, one hand over his cock while the other pats his cheek.

 

_Well done._

 

Thenvunin sags, and flops to his side next to the mess.

 

He stares up at the subtle patterning on his bedroom ceiling.

 

Well.

 

…That did not go according to plan.


	11. Chapter 11

Aesthetic requirements for followers of Sylaise past a certain point in rank can become quite perilous, at times.

 

When Thenvunin was in his early hundreds, he once attended a function while wearing a fashionably-cut suit, the most stylish accessories handmade by one of Sylaise’s top designers (his mother), and a periwinkle blue scarf. All acceptable, even cutting-edge attire, but he had neglected to account for the tint to the lighting at the event. It had made the periwinkle look flat blue, which was horribly out of fashion that season.

 

The slip-up had cost him an apprenticeship.

 

If it had happened anywhere other than Arlathan, it probably would not have gone so poorly. But the city is cutthroat. Merciless. There are too many elves vying for all the top positions, for every edge they can possibly get. Give them the slightest bit of fuel, and they will roast you alive.

 

Which is why, even after the initial thought that he is under attack passes, Thenvunin does not feel much relief at discovering that he's uninjured.

 

It goes like this.

 

Walking some streets in the lower districts is often hazardous. Housing in the area is arranged in such a manner as to prevent eyesores. While there are many cheap housing districts with straight-forward approaches to this, like an emphasis on exterior design over interior comforts, the largest housing blocks of the lower city are actually, literally __under__  the upper districts. The mild, grey front entrances lead to narrow internal streets, and the cheapest apartments in all of Arlathan. There are no real windows in the blocks, apart from the few by the front entrances. Lighting charms keep the apartments from becoming too claustrophobic, and of course, most rooms have at least one enchanted window. But when the city suffers environmental disruptions, enchantments in the Lower City are often the first to be siphoned from. In the wake of the mishap with Falon’Din’s estate, the Inner Housing Streets have been experiencing ‘black outs’, as the residents tend to call them.

 

Thenvunin’s patrols do not ordinarily bring him to these streets. That is Peacekeeper work. But when the enchantments go down in an area, so does surveillance. Spirits also often tend to leave, disquieted by the shift in magic. After two high-ranking district managers for the Lower City were found murdered, with no evidence to implicate a soul, security is at an all time high. And thus, Thenvunin has his current duty assignments, checking one of these streets.

 

So long as the enchantments work, he has found himself largely unimpeded. The residents duck their heads and sometimes turn and head back into their apartments until after he has passed, but he leaves them to their matters, and they leave him to his. It has worked for four days, anyway. Thenvunin tries not to think on how the situation might change if a blackout were to hit. His street is not the one where the bodies were found, but he does not think anyone would murder someone outside of their own apartment. There could be a killer around any corner - even if Thenvunin mostly just finds some discarded junk and a few shy spirits every time he turns a bend.

 

He is nearly finished his route, on his way back out to the main street, when the lights go out.

 

Immediately, he lifts a hand and summons a lighting spell. And less than a second after that, so fast that he can only think someone was waiting for the opportunity, something collides with him. There is a wet __slosh__  and a terrifying sense of impact, something cold and stinking. Thenvunin casts back in the direction of the throw, hurtling a blinding spell, but the magic only hits grey walls and dingy floors.

 

The blackout only lasts less than a minute. When the light comes back, Thenvunin is alone, and…

 

Well.

 

He really is not __injured,__  at least.

 

But the stinking cocktail of - of putrid, sewage-type things on him is almost enough to make him wish he were.

 

He keeps his wits long enough to do a quick sweep of the street. There are a dozen doorways nearby, and probably more places for someone to run than he would know about. His nerves jangle, combat-ready and prepared for another attack. The seconds trickle by, and the muck on him trickles down, and there is nothing. No creak in a doorframe, no click of a window shutting.

 

Thenvunin has two choices.

 

He can either try and search the area - or, he can let the disgusting vandalism pass.

 

Given the likely fruitlessness of his search, and the fact that some part of him __is__  almost grateful that it was just muck and not something worse, Thenvunin sheaths his sword - when did he draw it? A reflex, he supposes - and makes his way towards the street exit. Fervently attempting to use what cleaning spells he knows to banish the sludge from his skin and hair and clothing.

 

He manages to get most of the substance off, but the fabric of his outfit is hopelessly stained, and the smell __clings.__  

 

He cannot be seen like this.

 

Yes, it is the result of an attack, and that _would_  be taken into consideration. But his reputation does not need what contempt would result anyway. The snide comments on how he should have dodged. The stories of how this or that attendant once demonstrated astonishing reflexes in the name of preserving a single accessory from certain doom. The last time something like this happened, an Attendant was struck with a virulently orange dye-bomb that did not fade from their skin and hair for a week. And people _still_ call them Verev the Orange.

 

Thenvunin weighs his options. Lower District bath houses are unlikely to avail him much, while they do tend to have more stringent cleaning spells, they doubt they could do anything for the stains. The main streets will be no good, if anyone sees him it is a _disaster_  in the making.

 

The nearest place he could possibly get to, without taking any of the main roadways, would be…

 

…Uthvir’s apartment.

 

Oh, Thenvunin thinks he would rather __die__  than have them see him like this. The mockery to ensue! That silver tongue of theirs would be a nightmare, and who knows how they might respond to seeing him so disgusting? It might turn their taste entirely off of him! The idea of them looking at him with revulsion in their eyes is more distressing than he might have guessed.

 

Because they can be so sharp-witted, of course.

 

But…

 

But, they are supposed to be at Andruil’s estate for most of the day. Working with some traders, he believes. And if he changes shape, and keeps out of sight, then their apartment _would_  be the quickest sanctuary. He could use the baths there and… well, if he cannot salvage his clothes, Uthvir would probably be willing to go and fetch him some replacements. If he cleaned up before they even got back…

 

Thenvunin debates only a moment more, before transforming. His clothing seemingly disappears in his swan form - magic, of course - but he would swear he can still feel a film of disgust __clinging__  to his feathers.

 

It is not a good shape to go wandering the city in. And flying can be hazardous. And he has never been much good at maintaining it for more than an hour or so.

 

Right this moment, though, he is profoundly grateful that he __can__  manage a disguise.

 

He takes off in a hurry. Not eager to be caught out in a shape unsuitable for fighting, in a place like this. The exit from the inner streets is not far, though. Thenvunin makes his way out into the Lower District, before winging his way upwards, and flapping as fast as he can to the mid-city hunters’ apartments. He takes what discreet routes he can manage and is sure to avoid colliding with any floating decorations or buildings. Though it is harder than usual. The wind feels _sticky,_ and _ugh._

 

Thenvunin is very particularly Not Thinking about what was probably thrown onto him.

 

He makes it, though. At first thinking to land on Uthvir’s balcony, before he realizes that he cannot be sure which one is theirs from the outside of the building, and then making his way towards the ground entrance instead. He has to change back to get in the door, but no one seems to be around. There a few spirits further down the street. They don’t come any closer, however.

 

And the baths are on the ground floor.

 

Thenvunin’s relief upon finding them empty is visceral. He will take all the cheap, citrus-y soap in the world if it will get him __clean__  without incident. He strips, tempted to just chuck everything as far from himself as he can, but reigning in the urge with his better judgement. There is a bin for putting in clothes to let the ambient cleaning spells work on them. He uses it, properly organizing his things before finally diving into the bathing pool.

 

Clean, clean, _clean._

 

Thenvunin finds the soap, and a few more bathing things than he recollects from the last time he was here, too. They probably belong to someone in the building. But there is no name written on them, nothing to deter their use, and his needs are __very__  great. So with a mental apology, he avails himself of the shampoo and cleansing salts, too.

 

It is not a very relaxing bath. Part of him still fears discovery, and he keeps one eye on the door as he scrubs vigorously. His hair has gotten the worst of it. He has to soak it all and switch between using the bath and the showers in order to finally get it clean.

 

Only when the strands are squeaking and his reflection looks pink and pristine, does he finally let the leaden exhaustion in his limbs sink in.

 

He sags against the side of the bathing pool, and closes his eyes.

 

His heart hammers in his chest.

 

He takes a moment. How long, he cannot say. But after a while he hears voices in the corridor outside. He freezes, waiting - reminding himself that he no longer looks a mess, but the sounds pass by without incident.

 

Still, it wakes him up a bit again.

 

He needs to get up to Uthvir’s apartment.

 

Checking the bin, however, reveals that all the clothing save his armour has __disintegrated.__  It was __that__  far gone, apparently. Thenvunin laments - he will have to get new outfits, now. On principle, he thinks he would like shopping. But between the restrictions of his rank and the requirements of Sylaise’s aesthetic stipulations, and trends, not to mention the difficulties of clothing his build… well. It is usually more stressful than anything.

 

At least he does not need to commission new armour, though. The metal and leather survived, where more delicate materials did not. He will have to string some new ties in here and there, though.

 

He scoops the pieces up, considers the dilemma for a moment, and then stows them in one of the bath house cupboards. An empty one - hopefully no one will make off with it before he can come back. Then he turns into a swan again, and makes his way out of the bath, and up towards the main staircase.

 

It is a testament to his exhaustion that he nearly loses control over his shape __twice__ , in his efforts to reach the third floor.

 

Uthvir’s door looks an awful lot like salvation.

 

Until Thenvunin realizes he is going to have to open it.

 

He looks down one end of the hall, and then the next. There does not seem to be anyone around, but… there are a lot of trophies on the walls. Any number of them could be masking surveillance devices. And what would people think? What would they __say,__  seeing him sneak __naked__  into Uthvir’s apartment? He stares at the door handle, and flaps his wings in frustration. And then in a mad attempt, tries to get himself upwards enough that he can get a foot around the handle.

 

He fails. And then he tries to get it with his beak, and just when he thinks it is going to be __impossible__  to turn with it, he taps on it, and the door swings open.

 

Thenvunin blinks.

 

That… was easier than he expected.

 

He wonders if Uthvir _is_  home, after all. Waddling carefully into the front room, he checks around. But there is no sign of them. The door swings shut behind him, and the apartment seems quiet. He investigates all the rooms, just to be sure. He even checks the closet.

 

But no Uthvir.

 

With a long breath, he changes back into his elven shape. And then he glares at the front door.

 

And just what was __that__  about? That was too easy! Do they just leave the door unlocked and so easy to open all the time?! Anyone could waltz in!

 

They are going to have to have a conversation about __that.__  It just is not safe!

 

But for the current situation, at least, it has proven convenient. Thenvunin slumps in exhaustion, not even bothering to pretend he has the energy to care that he is naked in Uthvir’s sitting room. The cushions and carpet are ridiculously comfortable, and the air is cool, and the scent of Uthvir’s apartment is familiar and calming. He takes in deep breaths and lets his tired body rest. A full day of patrolling, and then a madcap dash in his swan form, and then all of that bathing. His hair is still damp.

 

But he is safe now.

 

Or, well, as safe as can be considering he has probably just jumped from the pan and into the fire. At least being naked in Uthvir’s apartment is a familiar sort of trouble to be in.

 

He will have to report in eventually, of course. Make note of the incident. But if he plays his cards just right, then rather as coming across poorly, it might earn him some credit for managing to avoid being seen in disreputable condition. But that is only if he is lucky. He mentally reviews what he will have to do - tomorrow, no later; at least that patrol was at the end of his day - and catches his breath.

 

At some point, he drifts off.

 

When he wakes again, he has no idea how much time has passed. His hair has dried, and his skin has stopped crawling. His limbs still feel heavy, but he is rested enough to notice that some of the cushions are uncomfortably arrange beneath him. He sits up, and moves them. And then nearly flops back down, before he realizes.

 

He is naked in Uthvir’s apartment.

 

Without their permission or expectation of finding him here.

 

And he has _no idea_  how much time has passed since he lay down.

 

That wakes him up. He lets out a long breath, and stretches, and tries to slap some better coherence into himself. How does Uthvir have their time pieces arranged…? Oh, right, the windows. Thenvunin looks, and finds that it is early evening, judging by the tint to the glass. They could be back at any moment, then.

 

And he has no clothes.

 

Part of him thinks that there is nothing for it, in that case. He should simply lie back down, and accept the inevitable. There is no chance of him making it back to his apartment as a swan, it is too far, he barely made it __here.__  The only thing is to wait for Uthvir.

 

…But perhaps with a blanket. Just to, to soften the blow. Not that Uthvir would be __shocked__  at nudity, all things considered they barely wear any clothing themselves, but still. It is the propriety of the thing.

 

Thenvunin gets up, and checks himself over again. His head aches, as if to inform him that he still needs more rest. Or possibly something to drink. He fetches a glass of water for himself, and sips it as he makes his way to Uthvir’s bedroom.

 

He stares at their bed for a moment.

 

It is a very comfortable bed. The thought of soft covers and sheets and pillows, a warm cocoon he could just wrap himself up in, is so compelling he nearly fails to resist it. A little voice in the back of his mind pipes up, then. Whispering that Uthvir would hardly __mind.__  That a bolder man would probably just go with the flow on all of this. They __are__  courting, after all. He could climb into bed, and doze and wait, and when he heard the front door open, he could be ready. He could pretend it was all part of some grand plan of seduction. Uthvir would probably be __thrilled.__ Would probably hop right into bed and kiss him and caress him and have their way with him until he was too exhausted to move again…

 

And all his dignity would go down the drain along with the muck he just washed off.

 

Besides which, while that might work for an evening, at some point Thenvunin is actually going to have to go home. And he will need clothing for that. So, he will need Uthvir’s help for it. And to retrieve his armor from the cabinet in the bath, too.

 

He resolutely looks away from the bed, and heads for the closet.

 

Uthvir keeps some spare blankets there, he knows. They seem addicted to having soft, comfortable things always on hand. Thenvunin cannot quite remember which section they are in, though. He carefully lifts and moves a few things, and his fingers hesitate as they come into contact with soft, familiar material.

 

Some of Uthvir’s night clothes.

 

They normally sleep nude - Thenvunin is well aware. But every so often, when he pointed out the potential indecency of it as a habit (what if someone should need them during the night? What if an alert should be put out? They might end up rushing onto the street naked and getting cited for inappropriate nudity), they had acquiesced to wearing some nightclothes. Soft, slippery articles, barely even ‘clothes’, really. And much too loose on their frame.

 

“Oh,” they had said, negligently, at one point. “A mistake in a commission. They tailor got my measurements mixed up with another order. We had a laugh about it, and they filled out my request, and let me keep the wrongly-sized ones at their expense. And you know, they actually are more comfortable. But I have to tie the strings just so, or else they __slip__  off…”

 

He swallows at the recollection, and snatches his hand away as if burned.

 

But then he reconsiders.

 

Some clothes are better than __no__  clothes. And he knows these items are not precious to Uthvir. A lover borrowing some night wear is hardly… hardly unheard of, really. Hardly inappropriate, especially under the circumstances. And some part of him __is__  curious. Would they even fit him…?

 

He hesitates a moment more, before reaching up, and pulling the nightclothes down from their shelf.

 

They feel very light in his hands. The material is cool. Thenvunin swallows, and nearly puts them straight back. But an urge he cannot quite articulate stops him. They feel a little worn. Not __worn,__  but… there is just the faintest, Uthvir-ish scent lingering on them.

 

All the more reason to put them back, really. He should…

 

…But.

 

Well.

 

He _has no clothes._

 

Desperate times, and all.

 

He does not really know what has decided him, but something must, because he leaves the closet and changes into the nightclothes in the bedroom. It takes some doing. Thenvunin realizes he has never even __un__ tied the ties on these articles before, Uthvir usually takes care of it themselves, but there is always a logic to clothing. Even if it requires some trial and error. He gets the scraps of fabric on, surprised to find that they actually __do__  fit.

 

Or, well.

 

In a sense.

 

He can __wear__  them. But where they had been loose and flirtatiously fluttering on Uthvir, they are scandalously tight on Thenvunin. And also clearly not meant to accommodate someone with… er. A certain style of lower anatomy. He rearranges things a few time, shivering at the feel of the fabric against his skin.

 

It is not going to work, and he should absolutely take it off and just go back to looking for a blanket.

 

But morbid curiosity seizes him first, and he heads for the mirror instead.

 

He looks… big.

 

That is his first thought.

 

His shoulders look broad, unabashedly refusing to give him the ideal slim, even torso shape preferred by high-status elves. He thinks of Tasallir, whose shoulders are far more narrow - his every feature always seeming to line up with symmetrical perfection. Thenvunin’s shape is far more obviously distorted. His thighs too big, his pectoral muscles too prominent. Even his calf muscles refuse to hold a subtle or elegant shape.

 

When he first had his markings, and his body healed, he had looked far more ideal. Sylaise’s finest healers would not have reshaped him to be offensive, after all. Some part of him feels guilty for having ruined their work. Exploring his new physicality had helped him learn to live in his own skin. Figuring out how to move his body and control himself, had been thrilling. He still cannot bring himself to apologize for it. He is proud of his ability.

 

But life would be much easier if he could just… discreetly modify the __look__  of it.

 

A lot of people do. They have the strength to build up their bodies __and__  to shift them into more appealing shapes.

 

Thenvunin only has one virtue. Clothing helps make up for his lack, sometimes, but _Uthvir’s_  clothing most certainly does not. In fact it mainly seems to emphasize absolutely everything wrong with his look. He tries rearranging himself a few times in front of the mirror, but no angle seems to fix it.

 

The fabric slides against his skin, and he shivers a little. And tries to ignore the dangerous, traitorous voice in the back of his mind that whispers that defying aesthetics __is__  a little exciting, though.

 

Exciting as the feel of Uthvir’s clothes on his skin.

 

He swallows as he feels his skin heat, and an undeniable surge of arousal start to rise up in him. Literally as well figuratively. The nightclothes are not meant to accommodate a _relaxed _…__  well. As awkward as that had been, it becomes exponentially more obvious as his stimulation-based problem asserts itself.

 

This is entirely why he should not wear clothing like this. The look and the feel and the results - a bad idea all around.

 

Thenvunin is still staring at his reflection when Uthvir comes into the room.

 

There is a long, stunned silence, as Thenvunin freezes and Uthvir gapes. Shock escaping both of them. When did they come in? How could he have __possibly__  not heard the door, was he __that__  caught up in himself, and oh no, oh __no,__  of all the moments they could have caught him in today, this is probably the second worst one. He is wearing their clothes! In their apartment! Without their permission!

 

While _visibly aroused!_

 

Uthvir speaks first. At length. They swallow, and put down a box they are carrying, and tilt their head to one side. As if having just decided something.

 

“I am alright with this,” they say.

 

A burst of air escape Thenvunin, inarticulate, caught somewhere between relief and disbelief and exasperation. It sounds, admittedly, like someone just stepped on a balloon.

 

“You absolutely should not be!” he exclaims. “Do you know how easy it was for me to get in here?! I just tapped the door handle with my beak and it swung right open! Any pervert could get inside your apartment!”

 

Uthvir shakes their head, and stares at him. Their lips quirk.

 

“Oh no, just the one pervert,” they say, with a wink. “I redid the security wards to let you in ages ago.”

 

Thenvunin has no idea how to respond to that.

 

How does anyone respond to that?!

 

“I am _not_  a pervert!” is what he settles on. As soon as the protestation leaves him, he realizes he is making a particularly weak case for himself, just this moment.

 

“I mean, if you had __asked__  if could come over and try on my clothes sometimes I would have just said yes,” they muse, looking him over slowly. Again. Thenvunin’s skin heats, and he is painfully aware of the fact that trying to hide the obvious… the obvious, would just make it even more obvious. He nearly covers himself anyway, before fending off the urge and standing stock still instead.

 

“Well I might have asked you not to stretch anything, too. But you fill my nightclothes out quite nicely,” they conclude.

 

Thenvunin swallows.

 

_Say something, you idiot!_ he hisses at himself.

 

“My clothes disintegrated,” he blurts.

 

Then he closes his eyes, and curses his own name. Of all the made-sounding ridiculous tripe-

 

“Just to be clear, is that part of the kink?” Uthvir asks.

 

“No!” he snaps. “They disintegrated in the bathroom cleaning bin. My armour is fine. It is still down there, unless someone stole it. I would have brought it up with me but I had no __clothes__  so I had to turn into a swan to avoid being flagged for indecency.”

 

Uthvir waves a hand airily.

 

“People walk around the building naked all the time. It is not an issue, so long as it is indoors,” they say. But they do look considering, too. “So _that_  is why you used your ‘beak’ to open the door. How did your clothes get so dirty that the bin destroyed them in its efforts to clean them?”

 

Thenvunin sighs, and gives up. It is going to sound like pure nonsense, now. Like a bad excuse.

 

“I was patrolling the Lower District. There was a blackout. Someone threw muck at me,” he explains.

 

“That must have been some muck,” Uthvir murmurs.

 

He grimaces.

 

“It was,” he says. Just recollecting it makes him want to shudder all over again. He is fairly certain that part of his mind is deliberately not processing the experience, and he is grateful to it.

 

“Poor Thenvunin,” Uthvir says. “So that was why you did not report in after your shift. Imuril mentioned that you were not being your usual, punctual self. And I suppose this also explains why you were not at your apartment, either…”

 

Thenvunin frowns, as they move closer to him. They have gone all _slinky,_  of course, but his mind is stuck on something else now.

 

Possibly in yet another vain hope of avoiding the current situation.

 

“Were you looking for me?” he asks.

 

There should not be any reason for them to. Uthvir actually comes up short themselves for a moment, before they close the distance. Resting their hands presumptuously - maybe even a little possessively - on his waist. Thenvunin swallows. However poorly his undisguised form might match with high brow aesthetic trends, _Uthvir_  certainly does not seem to mind.

 

In fact, he does not think they have ever once criticized his looks.

 

“I was,” they say, plainly. “Your patrol route has been more dangerous, lately. When Imuril mentioned you not coming in, I worried.”

 

Thenvunin’s stomach twists and his heart does an embarrassed flip. Uthvir leans up and locks eyes with him, and grins.

 

“I am pleased to see that you just needed to unwind a little, though,” they say. “And how you decided to do it-”

 

“I was covered in muck!” he protests. “I had no clothes, I was only seeing if these might _fit-”_

 

“You were posing in front of my mirror!” they point out, with a laugh.

 

“Checking the _fit,”_ Thenvunin insists. He does not know why it feels like he is lying. He _was._

 

Uthvir pulls him closer. A gasp escapes him as they press flush to him, and grin. All teeth, and hooded eyes.

 

“I think I would like to check the fit myself,” they purr. “My lover in my clothes. Seems only appropriate, hm?”

 

His lips tingle, waiting for the kiss they still have not given him, as he inwardly curses their __mouth.__  And their __teeth.__  And their hands, and eyes, and everything else that has caught him off-guard and is closing in for the kill.

 

And here he is, far too tired to resist. Far too tired to do much of anything except lean in until they __do__  kiss him.

 

What a horrible day. A horrible, awful, tiring day - fit enough to make Uthvir’s manhandling feel like a respite.

 

Even when they bite his lip and absolutely __refuse__  to let him change.


	12. Chapter 12

The party is not the sort that Uthvir normally expects Thenvunin to attend.

 

Meaning, of course, it is taking place in the Pleasure District. With some restrictive invitation requirements, and a lot of careful preparation. Uthvir cannot even take credit for the whole thing - while they have their predilections when it comes to risque parties, this ‘nearly-an-orgy’ trend of celebrations is not actually their cup of tea. But one of Ghilan’nain’s more prominent diplomats had arranged it, and consequently there had been an opportunity for any skilled and resourceful hunters to provide assistance. And where there is opportunity, there is a chance to earn distinction and advancement.

 

So Uthvir had helped. And they had mentioned the party to Thenvunin - mostly to get a rise out of him, but also to let him know where they would be for the next few days.

 

Imagine their surprise when they hear a slight commotion near to the celebration hall’s entrance, and find Thenvunin being halted for a lack of invitation. The man seems frustrated - no doubt. After all, his lover has arranged the party, and his nanae practically runs the whole district. The doorman is playing by the rules, though, and does not seem impressed with the over-dressed military man at the gates.

 

Uthvir makes their way over before the situation can get stressful.

 

“Thenvunin, darling, stop glaring,” they tut, linking their arm with his, and producing their own. “ _I_ have the invitation. You are my plus one. Really, you should have just said that.” So pronouncing, they wave their invitation at the doorman again. He looks about ready to be done for the evening. Poor soul - there about twelve hours of party left to go, and probably half that time before he can change shifts. Uthvir does not plan on staying for the whole event, either. Not unless required.

 

Thenvunin is stiff as a board as they lead him past the erotic topiary display, and over towards the buffet table.

 

“I was not expecting you to come,” the admit.

 

He makes an odd sound, and does not quite look at them.

 

“...It occurred to me that it might make it easier to uphold the terms of our courtship, if I was here to assist,” he tells them.

 

Uthvir blinks, and then grins up at him.

 

“Why, Thenvunin-”

 

“Oh do _not_ start!”

 

“But you came to protect my virtue!” they insist. “How perfectly romantic of you.”

 

The accusation, to their surprise, actually makes his cheek pink. He clears his throat, and looks away. And ends up looking right at a topiary sculpture of a quivering vulva. He looks back at Uthvir a moment later; apparently deciding that, on balance, they are still the safer target.

 

“I have been known to be capable of romance. On occasion,” he insists.

 

Uthvir leans up, and presses a kiss to the corner of his jaw.

 

“Big of you to acknowledge it,” they tease.

 

He bats them down.

 

“We are in _public,”_ he insists.

 

They raise an eyebrow.

 

“Really, Thenvunin. It is _that_  kind of party,” they say. “If you are going to defend my virtue, then the easiest way will be to go along with the public displays of affection.”

 

“But…” he says, hesitantly.

 

Uthvir has come recognize the signs of Thenvunin being worried about his reputation. It is a very particular sort of worry, and while they would be hard-pressed to describe how it looked or seemed different from any other kind of worry, it _is_  distinct. Mostly in the way it feels. Especially when they are up close to him like this.

 

They tut, and resist the urge to settle a proprietary hand at his back.

 

Instead they lean in, and this time offer a whisper instead of a kiss.

 

“I can play a part,” they tell him, with a wink. “Just look big and tall and stoic, and I will resist the urge to bend you over a bench, and no one else will know the difference.”

 

They are quite certain on that point. Thenvunin looks slightly less convinced, but Uthvir has no trouble meeting other people’s assumptions and expectations. They draw him over for some refreshments, and lay it on a little think with the batted eyelashes and ‘come hither’ gestures, and the body language and emotional cues that broadly telegraph submissiveness. Thoroughly playing the role of enamored prey.

 

Thenvunin, though, still looks uncomfortable about it all.

 

Uthvir can’t help but wonder if part of his reservations lie with the fact that he really _would_  vastly prefer to play their part. Even in public - if only he were allowed.

 

They try to imagine it. Thenvunin swooning and simpering and extending enticing fingers. Not a bad thought, but it doesn’t quite fit. They wonder if he wouldn’t protest it more, in the end. Playing cat and mouse, but with a very grumpy sort of mouse.

 

_Cute,_  they think.

 

As a theoretical concept, anyway. Though there is something oddly amusing about Thenvunin looking so dour at an erotic party. Even at the early stage, where people are mostly mingling and flirting, admiring the artwork, and putting the feelers out for partners.

 

“I have a few social obligations to see to,” they say. “Try not to look constipated the _entire_  time.”

 

Thenvunin scowls at them.

 

“Yes, that look,” they say.

 

He keeps on scowling, of course. But when they go to tug him along, there is some hesitation to him as well.

 

“Do not worry,” they murmur. “Did you not grow up in this district? You probably went to plenty of parties like this. Relax, and go with the flow.”

  
Thenvunin sighs. But after a moment, he does also lean in towards them.

 

“I was not _raised_  in this district,” he says. “Mama had a place in the city, and Nanae came to us most of the time. And I only went to a few parties like this, when I was older. When I started to establish myself it seemed… dangerous to make a habit of it. And my parents or brother were always chaperoning.”

 

“Ah,” Uthvir says. “No fun at all, then?”

 

Thenvunin snorts.

 

“You have no idea. Going to a sex party with your parents is… it is not an entertaining experience, let’s put it that way.”

 

“I will take your word on it,” Uthvir replies, with a chuckle.

 

Most of the party-goers are Ghilan’nain’s people, with Andruil’s taking up the next highest count, and servants of other leaders peppered here and there throughout. There is an events manager from Dirthamen’s ranks whom Uthvir has been meaning to speak to. And of course Wonder, the manager serving Ghilan’nain, the man primarily responsible for the event, and probably the most prominent person attending it. Plus a few hunters they will need to make pleasantries with, for a variety of reasons. They keep Thenvunin on a short leash - not that he seems inclined to wander. And the number of pleasure workers attending the party at least means that there is enough variety, no one needs to go _hunting_ for their leisure partners.

 

The first hour proceeds more or less like a normal party, albeit with raunchy decorations and an abundance of bawdy jokes.

 

As time progresses, though, the alcoves start filling up. And articles of clothing start disappearing from the hired entertainment. And then from the guests, too. A few elves approach them, venturing some offers and invitations. Uthvir flirts, and Thenvunin goes rigid; but they turn everyone away, too, with the same sly wink and assurance that it _would_ be interesting… in theory. Current arrangements are what they are, however.

 

The sights and sounds of so many elves beginning to ‘entertain’ one another start to get to them before long, though. And they find themselves becoming increasingly aware of the arousal escaping Thenvunin’s hold, and the heat of his body next to theirs. The few beads of sweat on his neck, and the way he keeps _shifting,_ every so often.

 

They really do have to resist the urge to just crowd him into an available space and give into their usual temptations, then.

 

Instead, they __steer__  him towards a somewhat secluded window seat, and settle in with him. Letting him catch his breath in a spot that affords some fresh air, and a less-eroticized view of the public garden. They prop their legs up, not really thinking twice about it - it is a comfortable position - and blink when Thenvunin actually puts a hand on their thigh.

 

He presses it back down.

 

“Someone could take that as an _invitation,”_ he tells them.

 

They grin, and cuddle up close.

 

“Would _you?”_ they wonder.

 

He gives them a flat look.

 

“I am not going to… in _public _…__  just… _no,”_  he says.

 

“Ah, well. Who can fault me for trying?” they reply, breezily. It really was a long shot that he would decide to ford that river _now,_ of all times. Although, as buttoned-up as he is, the man does seem to pull the oddest kinks out of the woodwork, too. So perhaps it wouldn’t be __so__  strange?

 

They keep on leg bent, anyway, and when he frowns they tease him that it is not actually a _revealing_  pose, and then grin at his look of disbelief. They aren’t flashing anything, though. Just a lot of leg. And Thenvunin has yet to take his hand from their thigh. He even gets distracted from their argument by a few owls in the garden - they start hooting, to the visible despair of the musicians.

 

The sound of footsteps draws both their attention, a moment later.

 

Uthvir freezes.

 

They feel Thenvunin go rigid in shock, too.

 

The Lady Ghilan’nain herself, then, walks past their alcove. With no announcements to have heralded her, and no attendants following in her wake. Uthvir almost thinks it must be a trick of some kind, but it is a public space, and any such deception would be caught and __harshly__  punished. One does not simply waltz around wearing the face of a Leader.

 

Of course, sometimes Leader waltz around wearing the faces of commoners. There is no rule against that - unfair as it can be. And it would be like Ghilan’nain to infiltrate a party to investigate something or other, only to find it dull and then simply change back again.

 

She may have been here the whole time.

 

Correction - she has _probably_  been here the whole time.

 

Uthvir can only stare, wide-eyed and unprepared for this level of social engagement, while Thenvunin does much the same.

 

Ghilan’nain gives the both of them a single look over. Then her gaze fixes onto Uthvir. Recognition sparks in her eyes. Not for them, they would think - but she made their body. A gift, for Andruil. They feel an unaccountable rush of guilt at the recollection, though they are not sure why. They were made for Andruil, but they are sitting here with Thenvunin. With Thenvunin, to whom they have promised some exclusive affection.

 

For the first time, they wonder if they are actually even allowed such measures.

 

But then Ghilan’nain snorts, as if in amusement. _Knowing_  amusement. And without comment, turns her gaze away, and moves on.

 

Uthvir is almost relieved to be beneath her notice.

 

A half second later, Thenvunin snatches his hand from their thigh.

 

“She knows,” he says.

 

Uthvir blinks at him.

 

“Knows what?” they ask.

 

“Knows…” Thenvunin says. He gestures vaguely, and then a moment later, seems to give up articulating it. He looks at them expectantly. But they can only shrug.

 

“Leaders are like that,” they diplomatically assert. “I wouldn’t worry. I doubt she came here for either of __us.__  Especially not you - you were not even on the invitation list. She probably came to assess Wonder, if anything. Or one of his subordinates.”

 

“But she could _tell,”_ Thenvunin insists. “She looked at us and… and she could see it!”

 

Uthvir finally gleans his meaning.

 

“Thenvunin,” they say. “She is the Lady Ghilan’nain, not _Dirthamen _.__  She does not know your secrets just by looking at you. And all either of us did was sit here. She probably just recognized my form; she built it.”

 

“That is not what the… wait, what?” Thenvunin asks, blinking.

 

Uthvir nods.

 

“She built it,” they say, gesturing demonstratively at their figure. “She has made a fair few bodies by now, you know.”

 

“Of course I know!” Thenvunin snaps. “I just had not realized… her creations are usually high-ranking…”

 

They raise an eyebrow at him.

 

He trails off, awkwardly.

 

The evening air feels a little cooler now. Uthvir sits up straighter, and folds their arms. Incidentally putting a little more distance between themselves and Thenvunin.

 

“Andruil grew bored with me,” they explain.

 

Silence follows. With more awkwardness. At length, Thenvunin clears his throat.

 

“Oh,” he replies.

 

They do not manage to say anything more for a while, then. Though it feels like, at any moment, either of them might salvage the situation. Or stick their foots even deeper in their mouths. The owls in the garden go quiet, and the music stops. And they hear Wonder hastily announcing the surprise presence of the Beloved Lady Ghilan’nain, in the tone of a man who has being trying to trap rabbits only to have a jaguar drop onto his head.

 

Thenvunin lets out a long breath, after the announcement. The mood of the party overall abruptly shifts to something more __tense.__  More high-pressure. Uthvir supposes a few people might take it as a chance to vie for Ghilan’nain’s attention. But after centuries of mostly ignoring everyone except her wife, Uthvir does not think she is liable to break habit tonight.

 

“I am sorry,” Thenvunin says. “I did not mean to blunder across a sensitive subject.”

 

Uthvir blinks at him in surprise.

 

“It… it is not really sensitive,” they say. “Most people just already know. Among the hunters, anyway.”

 

Thenvunin nods in understanding. He lifts a hand. Hesitates a moment, and then reaches out, and closes it over their own. Offering a gentle squeeze.

 

“Still,” he says. “There is nothing wrong with you.”

 

Uthvir blinks again. Their heart skips a beat, while Thenvunin stares at their hands and not their face. They give his own a squeeze back, before letting their emotions flare out a bit. Into a grin, as well as into the air.

 

“Can I get that in writing?” they say.

 

Thenvunin snorts.

 

“Absolutely not.”

 

Ah, well.

 

Worth a try.

 

~

 

Uthvir likes cushions.

 

And blankets. Pillows. Throws.

  
They are very handy things to have around. They make people feel comfortable, they promote a relaxed atmosphere. And, if used cleverly, they can also provide barriers and cushioning between one person and the next, under the guise of comfort. Which, in a sense, is still something they are providing. The comfort of being able to keep some ample padding between you and the person right beside you.

 

Which is why Uthvir does not usually try and take their cushions away, when Thenvunin uses them to cover his face or hide his chest.

 

Even though they really, really want to.

 

Like right now. They have the commander half undressed, can still taste him on their lips, but his arms are wrapped tightly around one of their bigger cushions. Uthvir manages to nudge it down just enough to see his face. The colour in his cheeks and the tremble in his lips, and the shimmer of the markings around his eyes. It is easy to think of the cushion as an adversary. The thing standing between them and Thenvunin’s skin. Thenvunin’s pleasure.

 

But it is not.

 

It is a comfort. For Thenvunin. Who is big and tall and stoic and severe, and who hides from soft kisses by clutching pillows to his chest.

 

Uthvir regards him for a moment. One hand on the cushion he is clutching. Lips still close enough to taste. And then they lean back in, and sate themselves with another kiss instead. Nibbling a little. Chasing the sigh they can all but feel him holding back.

 

An act of pure seduction, really. Seducing the cushion away. Uthvir leans in and offers kisses, and keeps one hand on the cushion. But they do not tug or pull or comment on it, not today. And as they offer more and more, Thenvunin’s grip loosens. The tension in his shoulders eases. Bit by bit, as the heat in the room grows, and Uthvir’s mouth slides from his lips to his neck. Their own hold on the cushion tightens. Fingers curling, giving just the gentlest, questioning pull, until at last it comes away with no real effort at all. Leaving them to slip their hands across Thenvunin’s chest, and press their teeth teasingly against the junction of his neck and shoulder.

 

They push him down against the pillows beneath them, and decide to reward his relinquishing of the cushion by focusing on his torso for a while. They trail kisses across his collarbones. Tasting his skin, and sliding their hands down his stomach, to finally undo the buckles on his belt. Thenvunin’s breaths speed up, but he keeps quiet as they suck a bruise above his heart, and let their touch linger at his hips. Thumbs brushing over his hipbones, teasing other explorations, but only teasing. They can feel him straining in his pants, by the time they move their mouth to one of his nipples.

 

One of the teeth grazes over the sensitive skin.

 

It draws the first, faint gasp from Thenvunin’s lips. Barely more than a broke breath. But it sends a shocking amount of heat right through them.

 

They might just be developing a hair-trigger of their own, with all of this.

 

Moving one hand up, they play with his other nipple. Toying with sharp nails and sensitive skin, as they set upon the other with their tongue. Trying their best to get him to squirm, as a few more of his breaths break, and he clutches the cushion beside himself. They indulge in their admiration of his form. The meat of his chest, the gentle swell of his muscles. They whirl their tongue and close their eyes in satisfaction when his breath hitches again. And then they settle their teeth in a circle around his nipple, careful not to press against the actual, sensitive skin itself, and bite.

 

Just hard enough to leave a circle of teeth marks. To draw a few welling pinpricks of blood.

 

They look up at Thenvunin, just in time to see him move the cushion to his face.

 

Uthvir narrows their eyes at it.

 

They run their tongue across the bite mark they have made, and gather Thenvunin’s blood on it. Then they lick a stripe across his nipple, and let the blood enhance the feeling. Before moving over to do the same on his other side. They grip his hips again, and grind against his straining crotch, and until they __can__  hear some of the sounds he is trying to muffle. Until he is squirming, despite himself. Trying to get free of the tight confines of his pants, trying - in movements, if not words - to get Uthvir to take them off of him.

 

They leave them on, and palm him through the material instead. The guards on his shins press a little sharply against their own thighs.

 

“I think,” they purr, almost surprised at how low their own voice sounds. “That you should come in your pants for me, Commander.”

 

They see Thenvunin’s throat bob. Just a little. Can almost feel the look he wants to give him, not nearly so sternly disapproving as he probably imagines. Uthvir molests his chest a bit more, and strokes at his crotch.

 

“If we are going to be doing everything behind layers of fabric and cushions and suchlike, it seems the way to go,” they add, before they move back to the bite mark they made, and whisper a slightly more complex spell against it. One they makes Thenvunin’s hips rock, and a muffled gasp escape the cushion, and his hands clench and unclench.

 

Uthvir smirks against him, and then thrusts against him, too. Giving in to some of their own simmering desire. Their own clothes do not provide much of a barrier between their cock and the tented front of Thenvunin’s pants. They can feel the seam of his trousers press against their sensitive skin. Feel the arousal spike in the air, too, and catching they drift, they clutch him tight and thrust against him again.

 

It is probably criminal, how badly they want to be inside him. How much they enjoy it, every single time. The feel of his internal walls around them, the way simply  _ _knowing__  they are inside of him can rile them up. But they have been having him that way a lot, and it is not a thing to overdo, really. So they play act it instead. Close their eyes and thrust against him, fuck him in a different way, while they use their magic to amplify sensations and their mouth to tease him, until he stiffens and his pleasure bursts from him. Coming in his pants.

 

“Well done,” Uthvir praises, with a grunt as they rock against him again. They take themselves in hand to finish off, moving upwards to come against the heated skin of his stomach.

 

Thenvunin finally moves aside the cushion when they do.

 

He looks like he is on the verge of some protestation. But then he stares at them. Perched above him, cock still on his stomach. Their seed painting his skin, along with their teeth marks, and the red kisses they left behind. His throat bobs, as Uthvir pushes the cushion away again, and lets him look for a moment.

 

Before curling a hand around his jaw, and kissing him again.

 

“What a mess to have made, for no reason at all,” he grumbles.

 

Uthvir cannot help it.

 

They laugh, and caress his cheek.

 

“Oh, I had a reason,” they assure him, with a wink.

 

_Seduction successful,_ they think, when he puts a hand over his eyes and grumbles a bit more.

 

But just what they are trying to seduce out of him, that is a little harder to say.

 

 

~

 

 

Uthvir is beginning to dislike disruptions to their usual daily routine a lot more than they ever did before.

 

This occurs to them after their lunch plans with Thenvunin get cancelled for three days in a row. And, when they finally get together on the fourth, they barely make it halfway through the meal before they just give up, pin him to the windowsill, and suck his cock until his eyes are wet and his cheeks are flushed and his seed is in their mouth. His breaths are ragged, his hands loosely wrapped through the curtains, his boots still on.

 

They give him a look full of heat as they swallow, and wipe their chin. Something in them purring in satisfaction at the dazed expression on his face.

 

Though, truth be told, even they are a little taken aback at the ferocity of their reaction.

 

Still...

 

It seems to be going over well, judging by the lingering arousal still clinging to him, and the way he hasn’t even put his leg back down yet.

 

Uthvir stands up, and takes his chin in their hand. They kiss him, so he can taste himself on their tongue; and so they can nibble his lips until they are flushed, and try to cool some of their own intensity with affection.

 

It works… somewhat.

 

When they pull back, they get him loose from the curtain again.

 

“I need to get some things,” they decide. “Would you do me a favour, and get out of those clothes?”

 

Thenvunin lets out a ragged breath. Panting a bit.

 

“What?” he asks.

 

Uthvir reaches over and, tugs his collar.

 

“Get out of all this, lover,” they request, more gently. “Things are going to get very hot, very shortly. Unless you have somewhere else to be?”

 

Thenvunin swallows. But after a moment, he shakes his head.

 

They head off to their bedroom, then. Plan in mind, as they gather up their lubricating oils and some good, soft rope. That doesn’t take long, though. What takes more time is getting themselves to calm down. It __has__  been a while, after all. They want to savour this - they _like_  savouring it, they remind themselves. Teasing and toying and drawing things out. They splash some cold water on their face, undress, and stand with their hands against the stone wash basin for a moment. Just letting the coolness of it sink in, and steady them.

 

By the time they head back out again, Thenvunin is naked, and standing awkwardly in the middle of the room. He folds his arms, and then unfolds them. For a half second he puts them on his hips, before realizing the pose that leaves him in. And then he folds them again, and stares at the ropes.

 

And - probably without realizing it - licks his lips.

 

Uthvir grins.

 

“These should help you decide what to do with those arms of yours,” they say, holding up the ropes. “And keep you just where I want you.”

 

The comment makes Thenvunin’s cheeks heat. Both sets, Uthvir notes from the side angle. Their grin widens, and they beckon him closer. Giving him a moment to make up his own mind. He doesn’t really take long, though, before drawing near enough that they can take his wrist, and loosely tie one end of a length of rope around it.

 

They lead him over to one of the wall posts - near to the bigger cushions in their main room - and tie the other end to that. And then they give him one of the cushions to rest against, and trail a few kisses across the backs of his shoulders, before they set about binding his legs together.

 

Uthvir knows a lot of knots.

 

It comes in handy.

 

They take their time with his legs. Lingering over them, and letting their position behind him sink in; before they reach around, and brush a hand over his length, to see how his recovery is going.

 

Very well, from the feel of it.

 

They offer him a few careful strokes. Careful, because the last time they meant to tease him like this, he went off again. And as shockingly hot as that was, they mean to keep on drawing things out this time instead.

 

Though part of them really just… wants to have him, already.

 

They try and let the anticipation work with them and not against them, and permit it to sink into the air around them. Maybe even more than they had meant to. The cocktail of desire and arousal and __want__  and admiration, the sheer sexual heat of it all, actually makes the atmosphere waver a little. It knocks the breath out of Thenvunin, too, and gets him stiffening in their hand - enough so that they pull their touch away.

 

They run their hands down his thighs instead, and sigh over him.

 

“You are irresistible,” they tell him.

 

He lets out a puff of breath, and clutches the cushion with his free hand. And then bends down of his own accord. Leaning over it, and shifting his hips. Offering himself up. Uthvir’s own breath catches, then. They tighten their grip on him, and do not bother to hide their arousal. Even go so far as to hitch his hips up a little higher, and put him on better display. They brush the backs of their fingers across the sensitive skin of his taint, and watch all his parts start to flush.

 

They intend to take their time, and they do. But they hadn’t anticipated just how much torture it would be, to _slowly_  start to work him open. To dip the first finger into the heat inside of him, and shiver as their mind imagines that same heat wrapped around their cock. To watch his whole body flush, see his arms crush the cushion beneath him - the bound one, too, able to move far enough to rest against it. His hair pools on the floor, and his back muscles flex, and his cock twitches as Uthvir alternates between spreading him open and squeezing his ass.

 

There is a new potion on the market. Supposedly it makes things __faster,__  for this sort of activity. Uthvir never had much interest in it before - they really do __enjoy__  taking their time - but now they find themselves wondering about it. Wondering how Thenvunin might react to it, too, if Uthvir could just pin him to the wall and go at him any time the both of them felt like it.

 

They will have to investigate the matter, they think. With the part of themselves that is still capable of orderly thought, and not busily trying to resist the urge to speed things up. Or to just give in and rut against Thenvunin’s skin until they take the edge off, at least.

 

“I want to be inside you so badly,” they tell him.

 

He makes an irritated sound back at them. It tapers upwards as they press their fingers inside of him at a certain angle, though, and turns into something much closer to a __whine.__  A shocking bolt of heat flares behind their breastbone at the sound, and has them shifting their own hips in anticipation.

 

_Steady,_ they remind themselves.

 

“Want to fuck you so much,” they murmur, keeping the pace. They drop a kiss onto his back, tease their fingers in and out of him. A pale imitation of their intent. “Feel you all around me. I love that, I love how fucking you feels… how perfect you look with my cock inside you, with your skin red and your body yielding. You are such a treasure, Thenvunin, you are a symphony, that starts so softly and rises so swiftly, and stirs all my blood with each crescendo…”

 

“That is _terrible,”_ Thenvunin objects, shakily.

  
They move their fingers a bit more firmly, and drag their nails across one of his thighs.

 

“Every gasp and sigh that escapes you is music to my ears, though,” they insist. And then they do their level best to wring one of them out of him, shifting the angle of their touch, letting their desire suffuse more of the air, and whispering every filthy, devoted thought that crosses their mind, until he finally gives in with a moan and a soft curse.

 

They line themselves up with him at last, when he does. Pulling their fingers away, and pressing their own insistent arousal to his entrance.

 

_Slowly,_  they remind themselves.

 

Slowly.

 

They start to press in, and have barely managed it before they pull away again. A maddening game, as the irresistible heat of his body nearly envelops them, only for them to deny the urge to keep chasing it. They stroke themselves a little instead, but even then, they hold off - unwilling to spoil the moment. Instead they venture another shallow, aborted thrust, before pulling back again.

 

The slickness they spread into him makes their third teasing attempt glide between his cheeks, instead. Thenvunin lets out a soft ‘ah’, at that, and Uthvir cannot resist the urge to thrust against him a few times, before lining themselves back up again. They feel so very aware of every brush of their skin against his. Every curve and angle of his body. They wish they had the foresight to put up a mirror, so they could see his face. But they settle for watching the movements of his muscles, and listening to his breaths.

 

They lose track of the number of times they barely get inside of him, before pulling back, when Thenvunin finally lets out a curse and rocks his hips towards them. It is on an inward thrust, and it drags them deeper. Pulling a moan from them, and even more scintillating, one from _him,_  too.

 

“Dammit,” he hisses, then. “Dammit all, Uthvir, just _fuck me already!”_

 

Uthvir has a lot of restraint.

 

But not nearly enough to resist _that._

 

They thrust in, slick and hot and perfect, with a growl on their lips and their hands gripping Thenvunin tightly. They snap their hips, and listen avidly to each hitch of his breath, every moan and curse and plea that escapes him. There seem to be more than usual, at this. As if his demand opened up a door he cannot quite manage to close again. Uthvir does not mean to go rough, but before long they have sped up. Seeking more of his cries, more of _him,_  going deeper and harder as Thenvunin presses back into their thrusts and calls their name.

 

They are caught. Hopelessly caught, entangled more and more with each inward thrust, every building cry, until Thenvunin comes on his thighs. His seed splatters on the red ropes binding his legs, and drips down to the carpet. Uthvir clutches his hips and growls out his name, and takes only a few more thrusts to follow.

 

In the aftermath, both their breaths echo through an otherwise silent room.

 

They pull out more slowly. Stroking Thenvunin’s side, as they take a moment to appreciate the sight of their seed spilling out of him. Before they start to untie him. Wrist first, then legs, as they check his circulation - well aware of how carried away they had gotten, and how perilous that might become. Thenvunin’s movements are as boneless as they feel, and he keeps his face turned slightly away from them. At least until they sag against the cushion next to him, and coax him into resting against them. Sweaty but sated, with the lingering echoes of their pleasure still caught in the air,

 

“Hearing you ask for it really does it for me,” they muse. Maybe just a little rueful.

 

Thenvunin swats their shoulder. Or means to, probably - the movement is a little too slow and lacks any real force.

 

“You were being… _infuriating,”_ he informs them, when he finally catches his breath. “I had no intention of being tied up there for all hours.”

 

Uthvir tugs at him. Pulling him fairly easily into their arms. He might be taller than them, but it still does not take much work to get him to rest his head on their chest, as they lean back against the cushion, and push some of his hair away from his face. He glowers at their clavicle.

 

“And you got your way,” they agree. “I suppose we will have to do the other thing tomorrow night instead.”

 

“Don’t you dare,” he mutters.

 

One of his arms wraps around them, though. And he closes their eyes, and even lets out a sigh when they brush their fingers through his hair again, and move some of it back from his neck and shoulders too. They fiddle with his ears and caress his cheeks, and trace the line of his jaw, too, as they cuddle in the aftermath.

 

This might even be their favourite part, they think. Which is saying something. More likely, though, it just varies from moment to moment.

 

“I am not spending all night on the floor again, either,” Thenvunin insists. Still muttering, and not quite looking at them.

 

Uthvir hums in acknowledgement.

 

“When my legs are not longer jelly, I will gladly carry you off to bed,” they offer.

 

“Abscond with me, more like,” their commander counters.

 

They shoot him a toothy grin.

 

“If you prefer.”

 


	13. Chapter 13

It takes a full month for them to get their portrait commission squared away.

 

Longer than expected, really. And a little more arduous, too. Uthvir selects their pose very carefully. So far, Thenvunin has not precisely _capitalized_  on their offers of deception, with regards to the particulars of their sexual relationship. They honestly aren’t entirely sure what to make of it. The man requires that they present themselves in a certain light - and Uthvir has done. But Thenvunin himself seems reluctant over it all.

 

Possibly he is, in fact, concerned for _their_  reputation. Which is sweet, if misguided. Uthvir knows how to handle these kinds of things.

 

The likeliest option, though, is that he just dislikes lying.

 

Either way, the portrait is going to make a __statement.__  And it has to be just the right one. Uthvir cannot resist the urge to throw a glance over their shoulder - one which their lover will well know, by now. But one which might plausibly read as ‘coy’ or ‘daring’, given the context of the rest of the pose. They select a reputable portrait artist from the Pleasure District. A person they have worked with before - Ilren. One of Sylaise’s people, fallen from the grace of high-ranking artistry and, like many others, scooped up by the district in the aftermath. The upper ranks’ loss is Uthvir’s gain, as Ilren has a knack for conveying tone and beautiful lighting, and vastly prefers the sexual company of women.

 

Meaning, there’s not a lot of discomfort in modeling several poses and discussing the right imagery they want conveyed.

 

“Your beau is Thenvunin?” Ilren confirms, fairly early on.

 

“You know him?” Uthvir asks. Wondering if this is fortuitous or if they will, in fact, have to find a different artist. In the end it is mostly just circumstantial, though.

 

“I know his brother better,” Ilren admits. “And I knew one of his previous lovers. Anradan. He liked to use Thenvunin as a model. He was not a very… _ethical_ man.”

 

Uthvir stills, and something sharp in them perks in interest.

 

“Oh?” they ask.

 

Ilren snorts.

 

“Down, hunter,” she says, with a placating gesture. “It was a long time ago. He doesn’t even live in the city anymore - I think Melarue got him reassigned.”

 

Hmm.

 

They will have to look into that. They are still trying to find this blackmailer from Thenvunin’s past too, come to it. Not that Uthvir is __entirely__  sure of what they’ll do, in the case of discovering their quarry. It might, ultimately, just be better to leave the past in the past. But they can’t deny the compulsion to investigate. It makes them angry, to think of people taking advantage of him.

 

They commit the name ‘Anradan’ to memory. Ilren transitions away from the subject, adequately reading the room, and asking them some things about Thenvunin and their courtship instead. When Uthvir explains what, precisely, they are after, Ilren sets up some props for them to try a few poses with. She’s the one who repositions their hips and angles their legs out.

 

“It is a popular pose,” she explains. “You make the outline of a heart with your legs. Arch your back a bit more, if you can. We want it to look __inviting.”__

 

“We certainly do,” Uthvir agrees, and does their best to oblige her gentle poking and prodding.

 

Ilren chuckles.

 

“I can treat the painting to be waterproof,” she mentions. “Just in case of… incidents. If you think that might be of interest? And stain-proof, too, of course. For all sorts of things that might get onto it, in the course of its existence. A good portrait should last.”

 

“Perfect,” Uthvir agrees, with a wicked grin at the prospects. “Both treatments sound wise.”

 

They do their first sitting, trying a few poses and letting Ilren come up with her sketches, and then put the portrait out of their mind until their next meeting. They concretely settle on a sketch, then, going for the popular symbolism and layering in as much double meaning as they possibly can. Their next sitting takes a while to schedule, though, between one thing and another. Uthvir ends up going to the appointment after an already long day, then getting back home to find that Thenvunin has taken them up on their offer to stay over at their apartment whenever patrols take him to the Lower City. And then, well. One thing and another, they do not get much sleep, and wake up with a crick in their neck and an ache in their lower back.

 

They are rubbing at it over breakfast, while Thenvunin buttons all his buttons back up, and shoots them several glances they can't decipher.

 

They aren’t sure what to expect when he walks over to them. But it is not the tentative hand he ventures towards their shoulders. Pushing their own fingers aside, and then settling onto the knob of their spine. Uthvir opens their mouth to ask what he has in mind. They end up sighing instead, though, when they feel a slight tingle of a very mild healing spell. And then Thenvunin starts rubbing at their neck.

 

“Oh,” they say. Cautious, but a little thrilled, too. Thenvunin’s hands are big and warm, and his touch is _nearly_ too gentle, as he moves behind them. Or more properly behind them, anyway. A second hand joins the first. Right when he finds a spot that pulls an outright groan from them, as his touch works over the strained muscles.

 

He pauses. Just long enough that they nearly turn around. But then he keeps going, and even presses a little more firmly, too.

 

“I cannot believe you were so lascivious as to put your neck out,” he grumbles.

 

Uthvir blinks. Lascivious? What…? He couldn’t possibly know about the portrait, could he? But then they remember some of their activities of the night before, and the lightbulb goes off.

 

They snort.

 

He thinks they put their neck out sucking him off?

 

Well… that _can_  happen, they know. From experience. They reach behind themselves and pat his leg.

 

“I strained it earlier, doing something else,” they assure him. Then he moves his thumbs and they gasp, and press more insistently against his hands. “That feels _amazing,_  though. Please don’t stop.”

 

Thenvunin hesitates again, but to their relief, it only lasts for a moment. And then he does keep going. Rubbing their neck and kneading their shoulders, and even working his knuckles up gently to the muscles behind their ears. They do not skimp on the appreciative noises, in their efforts to encourage him. But they have no need to fake them, either. It has been a long while since they scheduled a proper massage, and Thenvunin is nearly as good as a professional. And there is a quiet, deeply pleasant sort of warmth at the fact that he initiated it.

 

They melt into it. Just a little. Nearly purring by the time his hands move from their shoulders to wrap around their front. Their breath hitches. Their heart speeds up, as Thenvunin draws them closer until the man is hugging them from behind.

 

His nose presses to their hair, and his lips brush against the side of their ear. His chest is warm and broad at their back. They can feel their pulse pounding in their ears, and are surprised at the amount of heat that suffuses their cheeks, as they suddenly fight to contain a rush of affection.

 

“You need to be less reckless,” he grumbles.

 

“I do?” Uthvir asks. Just slightly dazed by the sudden - and ongoing - hugging. Being instigated by Thenvunin. Who massaged their neck. And who heaves another sigh at their response, but still hangs onto them.

 

“I hardly want you hurting yourself,” Thenvunin insists. His tone is scolding, and maybe even a little defensive. But Uthvir feels too much like a bowl of pudding right now to conjure up a suitable response. After a minute, he carries on. “It is not as if I demand… I would never _insist_ on you, on… straining. At all. Not that I did, of course, you did it all of your own accord, but still. It should be said. We are courting, you needn’t _perform_  all the time…”

 

His words are a kind of a pleasant murmur, to be honest. Uthvir is close enough to feel him speak as well as hear him, and one of his hands is sort of rubbing at their chest, too. It takes them a while to even figure out what he is actually saying.

 

“It really was already strained,” they assure him, at length.

 

“Be that as it may,” Thenvunin insists. And, well. They really do not find much recourse against it. Rendered helpless and little inarticulate by all the pleasant, unexpected cuddling. They murmur a vague capitulation and rub a hand over one of his arms, and turn their head towards him. But that apparently puts things at their upper limit, as Thenvunin clears his throat and pats at them a bit, and then lets them go.

 

“I have patrols,” he says. Back to stiff, awkwardness.

 

Uthvir can hardly begrudge him, under the circumstances. They don't think they could muster a single harsh word for him right now. They smile at him instead, and admire the pink in his cheeks.

 

“And I have a planning committee,” they admit, with a wistful sigh. Lifting a hand, they rub at their neck. The crick is gone. “Thanks to you, I will probably be less impatient with it, though. That felt wonderful.”

 

Thenvunin clears his throat, and turns on his heel.

 

“Yes, well. Good,” he says.

 

“I can only imagine how good your hands would feel-”

 

“Oh _really,_ Uthvir!” he snaps. But he seems caught less wrong-footed on that note, too, as he throws them a scolding glare over his shoulder. Walking more confidently - more briskly - towards the door. Uthvir lets themselves enjoy watching him go. He really __does__  fill out a uniform. And then they sag onto their cushions, and appreciate the lingering warmth on their skin just a few moments more.

 

They’re almost tempted to make putting out their neck a regular thing, now.

 

…That is probably not a wise impulse, though. Or a very healthy approach to their relationship.

 

Ah, well.

 

They do a third sitting for the portrait - less focused on the pose, so they can relax more. And then Ilren finally finishes it, and has the commission delivered to their apartment. Uthvir sends the final portion of their agreed-upon payment, and makes an appropriate commendation to the district. Their commendations are not worth much, but it adds up for artists like Ilren. Then they inspect and admire the final product, before wrapping it up for Thenvunin.

 

They consider sending it to his apartment. They do like the idea of him getting all flustered and worked up and possibly reacting all _sorts_  of ways when no one is there to see it. And it would be the quickest way to do it. But in the end, the want to witness his reaction too badly to go that route. So they put the present aside, to wait for his next visit.

 

It doesn’t end up being a long wait anyway. Thenvunin comes by that evening. He rings the bell and everything, and Uthvir opens the door to find him dressed… differently. Not in his armour, for once. Wearing a high-collar coat and open-toed boots, and a fashionable blue vest. His hands are folded behind his back, and as soon as they open the door, he clears his throat. And then offers them a little half-bow.

 

“I am taking you to dinner!” he announces.

 

Then his mouth snaps shut, and he closes his eyes for a moment. And Uthvir supposes that he meant to phrase that different.

 

“Oh?” they ask, folding their arms. Trying not to grin.

 

“I mean… if you would like to go,” Thenvunin amends, clearing his throat again. “There is a place. A new place. I made reservations. And I will cover the expense. Do not take it the wrong way!”

 

Uthvir cannot help but give him a bemused look.

 

“What would be the wrong way to take this?” they wonder.

 

Thenvunin scowls, but also seems a stymied by the question.

 

“Nevermind that,” he says, after a moment. Looking them up and down, and colouring just a bit more. “You need to get dressed.”

 

Uthvir glances down at themselves. They are wearing a robe, so they suppose he has a point. They hadn’t been sure he would even stop by tonight, let alone demand to go out. Their mind turns towards the parcel waiting on their table. But if they give it to him now, it will probably derail his dinner plans. And Uthvir is intrigued.

 

They move aside after a moment, and let him in.

 

“Of course,” they say. “What a pleasant surprise! Is there anyone important at this dinner? Do we need to impress some general or attendant of your Lady’s?”

 

Thenvunin’s brow furrows.

 

“No,” he says. “Certainly not. Is it so preposterous that I would just take you out to dinner?”

 

“You have not done it before,” Uthvir mentions, with a shrug. Thenvunin straightens his shoulders even more, somehow. His lips thin.

 

“Yes. Well. Our courtship is progressing,” he says. “I should… I certainly do not intend to… anyways. These things happen.”

 

Uthvir snorts, but opts to let it go before he herniates something.

 

“Then I will just go find something to wear,” they say, and leave him alone for a moment, to go and change. Not knowing much about the venue, they err on the side of caution, and model their style after Thenvunin’s own. Choosing a brassy-coloured tunic, mainly because it goes with their nicest set of leggings, and making up for the low collar on it with a light scarf. They throw on some ear cuffs and bracelets, and tie up their hair, and emerge from their room to find Thenvunin looking at the wrapped parcel on their table.

 

“What is this?” he wonders.

 

“A courting gift for you, actually,” Uthvir admits, heading over and linking their arms together. “You can open it when we get back, if you like.”

 

Thenvunin looks over at their windows to check the time.

 

“We might have time still…”

 

“It should wait,” Uthvir insists, shaking their head. “I want to go to dinner, now. Gifts later.”

 

Thenvunin tuts at them. But he also seems a little pleased, too, with their eagerness to go out with him. And he lets them draw him out of the apartment and down to the street, before finally taking the lead to guide them to wherever they are going. Another new tavern in the mid-district, opening in the place that always seems to serve ineffective business ventures. A bad sign, Uthvir would say - but there is also a line out towards the street, and delicious scents wafting out from the windows. The sounds of sizzling and the chime of enchanted wine bottles being opened.

 

When Thenvunin hesitates, just a little, Uthvir can see why. Most of the other patrons who have made successful reservations look to be well above their rank and station. Even despite the tavern’s location - someone must have gotten a buzz going over it. The fashions on display are impeccable.

 

“You look very lovely,” they tell their date. “You must have gone to some trouble.”

 

He shakes his head.

 

“Not particularly. I only called in a favour - I did not realize it would be so…”

 

“Lucky us, then,” they declare, with a wink.

 

The seating is all reserved, but the host has Thenvunin’s name down, and graciously leads them over to a small table in one of the far corners of the seating area. Not the best spot, given the lack of windows and the way the glare from the lights reflects off of the nearby wall panels - but far from unpleasant. The host leaves them with menus, a long one for drinks and a short one for food, before hurrying off to see to more patrons.

 

Thenvunin frowns.

 

“It is more cramped than I thought,” he mutters.

  
Uthvir grins at him.

 

“It is an adventure,” they counter. “Why don’t you pick the food, and I will pick the drinks?”

 

That seems to soothe over his worries, at last. And he even offers them a tentative, breathtaking little smile, before nodding in agreement and picking up the food menu. Uthvir peruses the drink options, and tries not to sigh. They recognize none of the names, and there are no descriptions beneath the items listed. Just a very aesthetically designed list, minimalist on the interior but with a lot of swirls and flourishes on the border, and drink names like _A Sigh of Morning Mist_  and _Laughing Bells Upon Your Tongue._

 

A quick glance at Thenvunin’s expression, and they can guess that the food menu is not much better.

 

In the span of time it takes for their server to manifest, though, Uthvir has formulated a plan. While Thenvunin is still attempting to decipher his menu, they pull a token from their belt, and hand it to the low-ranking and harried-looking elf.

 

“Something low in alcohol and robust in flavour?” they request. “And dumplings if you have them, regardless of whatever poetry it is ordered with.”

 

The server pockets the token and offers a bow.

 

“A Grandmother’s Firm Handshake and some Sly Winks, of course, excellent choice,” they reply, as if that is precisely what Uthvir said.

 

Thenvunin looks up then, and clears his throat.

 

“Ah, yes, we will have the Lamb’s Retribution and the Dappled Bounty of the Forest,” he declares.

 

The server bows, and acknowledges it, before hurrying off to go and put their order in.

 

“Do you know what any of that might be?” Uthvir wonders.

 

Thenvunin lifts his chin.

 

“An __experience,__ is surely the intent. I imagine that if one constructs a sufficient theme, the food will be in harmony.”

 

“And one might also entertain the vague hope of lamb, in some cases?” they hazard.

 

Thenvunin’s lips twitch.

 

“If they are unimaginative,” he says.

 

And he ends up being right, as the ‘Lamb’s Retribution’ is, in fact, wolf meat. Uthvir has never had much taste for canine, and judging by the look on his face, Thenvunin is not enamored with it either. Fortunately, the Dappled Bounty of the Forest proves to be a wild mushroom medley with a variety of sauces, and the dumplings are sticky and delicious. The wine is as requested, flavourful and delivered in an elegant green bottle. Uthvir is fairly sure it all costs far more than it should, but they are still gripped by the pleasant novelty of Thenvunin’s instigation. Again. And once he seems assured that the whole venture is not a disaster, he looks quite pleased with it, too.

 

Uthvir does not intend to get tipsy. In the end they do have more drink than food, though, as the mushroom dish is not large, and the dumplings are small, and the wolf is mostly inedible. Thenvunin, being taller, does not seem as affected. But Uthvir is more than a little pleasantly buzzed as they make their way back out into the night. They use him to keep themselves steady, and pat at his arms.

 

“This was very nice,” they say. “I shall take you someplace in return! I know just the place, too, there is a little tavern in the Lower City. Not fancy, but it can be an adventure, too.”

 

“Really, Uthvir, it is hardly even noteworthy,” Thenvunin insists.

 

They reach up and bop his nose. Grinning at the look of consternation it summons.

 

“No, it is,” they insist. “Darling man. You went out on a limb, and I know it. I had a good time.”

 

To their delight, he flusters at the praise.

 

“Only you could make a compliment sound so inappropriate, somehow,” he says.

 

They laugh.

 

“What is inappropriate? I am beginning to think that people have not shown you enough courtesy in life, Thenvunin. You took me out, and I find it sweet, and I like spending time with you. Why should I not say so?” they wonder.

 

“It is _how_  you say it,” he insists.

 

“How do I say it?” they ask, as they fix him with a deliberately lustful look.

 

It makes him sputter, and makes them laugh, and squeeze his arm.

 

“You are impossible,” he insists.

 

“So are you,” they counter, with too much affection.

 

He does not really have a rebuttal to that. And then Uthvir nearly trips over some decorative paving, and Thenvunin settles a hand on their back and tsk’s about the tavern serving sizes and the strength of the wine, and vows to never go back there, even if they _did_  have a good time. Uthvir pats at him and sighs, and takes their scarf off to wrap it around his shoulders instead.

 

“What are you doing?”

 

“It is a little cold tonight,” they say.

 

“You are wearing less than I am, you need it more,” Thenvunin insists.

 

Uthvir grips his hip with one of their hands, and leans up to whisper.

 

“Seeing you in my things warms me up better than any scarf could hope to,” they confess. They tighten their grip, and smirk when they feel a distinctive note of arousal curl towards them. Thenvunin clears his throat, and glances down the street, before batting their hand away.

 

_“Uthvir,”_  he scolds.

 

But he does not take the scarf off, either.

 

When they finally get back to Uthvir’s apartment, they have nearly forgotten entirely about their gift, somehow. They get through the door but only just, before they crowd Thenvunin up against the wall, and start untying the sash of his belt. He puts his hands on their shoulders, and lets out a breathy sound when they finally get a hand into his pants. Cursing all the fabric up around his neck, as it stops them from pressing their mouth there. They give his hair a gentle tug, though, and he leans down enough for them to kiss his lips instead.

 

They get a hand on his bare, heated skin, before he breaks off the kiss and bats at them.

 

“No, no, __no,__  these are my good leggings, do not dare!” he protests, tugging their wrist. Uthvir lets him pull their hand away easily enough, and huffs a laugh at him.

 

“Get out of them, then,” they say, before stealing another kiss. It is not a bad point, though. The both of them are quite fully dressed, and the layers of fabric are starting to feel uncomfortable, now. However charming Thenvunin might look in his outfit. They get a little lost in the kisses again, before finally pulling back, and tugging their lover to the bedroom to strip. Thenvunin announces - in not so many words - that he needs to relieve himself, too. So Uthvir lets him go do that, and takes a moment to slip into something more comfortable themselves. Opting for a sheer sleep shirt rather than total nudity. The slippery fabric feels pleasant against their skin, and the material does not really leave much to the imagination anyway. They stretch and pull off their jewelry, and when Thenvunin does not make his way back in short order, leave to go investigate.

 

They find him stripped down to his underclothes, his upper layers folded neatly over one arm. Staring at the parcel on their table again.

 

Uthvir grins, and goes and picks up the wrapped portrait.

 

“I had almost forgotten. Shall we?” they ask.

 

Thenvunin swallows.

 

“What, now?” he wonders, as he shifts conspicuously in place.

 

Uthvir winks, and settles him and the gift onto the cushions near the table.

 

“Now is a _much_  better time for it,” they assure him, before cozying up to his side. It is a struggle to keep their hands to relatively safe places, as Thenvunin’s throat bobs, and he shoots them a suspicious look. And then gives the parcel an equally suspicious look. Not quite touching it, as though he is a bit afraid of the results.

 

“What it is?” he wonders.

 

“Open it and see,” Uthvir replies. They slip an arm around his waist, and wait for him to work up the nerve, then.

 

It takes about half a minute.

 

Then he lets out a gusty sigh, and starts pulling back the wrapping paper. They can feel him stiffen just a little in surprise, as he unveils the frame, and the top portion of the portrait. Realizing what it is. His throat bobs again as he unwraps more of it. Revealing their face, and expression. His cheeks heat, and a little arousal escapes his control; and Uthvir smirks. Good. They like that their looks can effect him so.

 

But the real treat comes when he gets to the bottom half of the portrait.

 

Thenvunin lets out an audible gasp, at that, and suddenly drags the wrappings back over their bottom half. As if to cover their modesty. His face __flames__  and his eyes go wide, and he looks at them. Seeming for all the world like a startled goose. Uthvir grins unabashedly up at him.

 

“You have not seen the whole thing,” they protest, attempting for genuine bafflement and falling far short of the mark.

 

“ _ _Uthvir!”__  he snaps.

 

“There is a lot of symbolism in the placement of my legs,” they assure him.

 

“This is _pornography!”_

 

“It is a tasteful nude,” they protest. Leaning a little closer, and slipping a hand into the waist of his smallclothes. Their smirk widens, as Thenvunin’s blush spreads down his neck. “But it is also very stain-proof. Just so you know.”

 

“As if I would-!” he objects, delightfully flabbergasted.

 

“Do you not like it?” they wonder.

 

He shoots them an annoyed look.

 

“Of course I like it!” he exclaims. And then seems to realize what he has said, and snaps his mouth shut quick again. And blushes even harder, somehow, while Uthvir fights back snickers. “I mean - that is, I mean… of course I, in the matter of… considering gifts… as a _general sentiment,_  in the grand scheme of… of…”

 

“You still have not seen the whole thing,” they point out.

 

He closes his eyes. Sucks in a long breath, and lets it out through his nose.

 

“You are trying to _kill me,”_ he accuses.

 

“How flattering, that you find my portrait so overwhelming,” they reply. And then - because he seems to have frozen up - they reach over themselves, and carefully pull the last of the wrapping away. Revealing their lower half, and the full picture of their pose. The heart-shaped bow of their legs, and the swell of their backside, and the heated look they are throwing over their shoulder.

 

Thenvunin stares for long enough that they being to wonder if they have broken some sort of internal operating mechanism on him.

 

“I chose a submissive pose,” Uthvir mentions.

 

“I can see that!” he snaps, at last.

 

“Well, I thought if you wanted to hang it in public-”

 

“If I _what?!”_

 

“It would be better if it upheld the ruse, of course. You see? It is perfectly acceptable. And if anyone had any doubts, it would help dissuade them,” they reason. They brush their fingers over the soft skin of his lower abdomen, and feel him shiver. “I did research.”

 

Thenvunin stares at the portrait a minute more, before swiftly averting his gaze.

 

“Who painted it?” he asks.

 

“A professional in the Pleasure District. Ilren,” Uthvir supplies.

 

He lets out a breath at the name.

 

“I cannot _believe_ you let someone see you like this,” he mutters, just the same.

 

They chuckle.

 

“Considering I just gave you permission to hang it up wherever you please, I imagine a _fair few_ people will see me like this,” they point out.

 

“Absolutely not!”

 

The denial comes out swiftly, as Thenvunin turns to look at them. He glares, but it is not his customary glare. It looks a little stricken, instead, a little __worried,__  and Uthvir does not quite know what to make of that. They pause the wandering of their hands for long enough to blink back at him.

 

“I really would not mind,” they assure him. “I am not a military elf, Thenvunin, my reputation does not hinge on nearly so many sexual inanities.”

 

“That does not mean it is inconsequential,” he insists, lifting his chin. “I have been doing research of my own, you know. Andruil’s followers are not as different as you imply. There is a price to being perceived as ‘prey-like’, and I would not invite anyone to think they could… that it would be appropriate to think such things of you.”

 

Uthvir cannot help their surprise.

 

“You looked into it?” they ask.

 

Thenvunin scowls at them.

 

“And why not?” he counters.

 

After a moment, they can only shrug.

 

“I suppose it makes sense,” they concede. “But you should not worry, even so. My reputation as a hunter is already tarnished by my vocation. People already expect this sort of thing from me. The damage was done before we even met.”

 

Thenvunin looks at the portrait. And then swiftly away again.

 

“This sort of thing should be private,” he insists.

 

That puts them on steadier ground. Uthvir hums, and starts teasing his skin a little again. They press a sharp kiss to his shoulder, and move around so that they are behind him a bit more. It impedes their view of the portrait - but they already know what it looks like. And they are less interested in seeing a painting of themselves than in observing all Thenvunin’s responses to it, anyway.

 

“It can be private, if you prefer,” they permit. “Just for your eyes. I could pose like that in person, if you like. It is a little awkward to hold for long periods of time, but it is fairly flattering, don’t you think? Getting the legs right is the tricky part, but holding your back just so… with that _arch….”_

 

They press their hands to him. Hearing his breath hitch a little, as they start to arrange him into the pose. His hands move forward. Another tremor of arousal escapes him, as Uthvir spreads his legs, and pulls his hair behind his neck; and presses at his lower back, until his ass his angled deliberately out towards them.

 

“A bit challenging, you see?”

 

“Uthvir…”

 

They rock their own hips forward, and abruptly grind against his backside. Wrapping an arm around his front, and pulling him back out of the pose in favour of thrusting up against him. With their free hand, they pull down the front of his smallclothes, and free his erection. The gasp that escapes him is electrifying, as they begin stroking him and grinding up against him with no further preamble. His undershirt slips, and exposes a path of his shoulder to their teeth. His arms move forward to help him stay upright, and with the angle, Uthvir can only suppose he is either looking at the portrait or keeping his eyes shut.

 

They keep their strokes even, mindful of the lack of lubrication, and the delicacy of Thenvunin’s skin. But unwilling to tease anymore, too. Before long Thenvunin’s hips are just slightly rocking, too. And his breaths turn ragged, while Uthvir traces a nail over the top of his length, and then pumps him until his forearms are trembling and there is a sort of tension that says he is trying to hold off on coming.

 

They grind their hips more aggressively against him, seeking out the friction and the heat, the feet of him pressing against their own restrained cock. And it does him in at last, sends him spilling across the portrait with a strangled sound. A mingled rush of pleasure and embarrassment, and just enough thrill to thwart the embarrassment.

 

Uthvir growls, and clutches him even more closely. They rock their hips up against him and chase their own relief, until they come against his smallclothes.

 

_“Thenvunin,”_ they groan, as they do.

 

He makes a sound, hard to decipher, and shifts his hips around.

 

“I did not even finish undressing,” he grumbles.

 

They snort.

 

“Oh, we can do it naked, too,” they assure him, as they let him go just enough so that they can move around, and see the portrait. His seed has mostly splashed across their legs. “There is a lot of portrait left to cover, wouldn’t you say?”

 

He sputters, and reaches over and smacks their thigh in reproach.

 

“We are not _covering the portrait in _-__ in - no!” he insists. “That would be much too exhausting!”

 

They laugh, and move back behind him to kiss the bite mark they made.

 

“Maybe not the _whole_  thing,” they permit.

 

Magnanimously.

 

Thenvunin makes a strained sound, and they laugh again.


	14. Chapter 14

Thenvunin is well aware that Uthvir has enough information on him to blackmail him a dozen times over, by now.

 

They seem disinclined to take that path. At least, they do currently. A hundred, two hundred, a thousand years from now, they might change their mind. Such is the pitfall of relationships. But tentatively, Thenvunin finds he must concede that they do just… seem to want to court him.

 

And really, there is not much more he could risk in all that by now. With previous partners, when things progressed to this point, Thenvunin tended to just internally shrug and attempt to get as much from it as he could, while he could. What point would there be in holding on to the shreds of dignity around someone who is well aware of how he is? Better to at least scratch a few itches and keep them appeased, and then avoid them in as many social venues as possible.

 

But… for some reason, with Uthvir, it… it is different. More complicated.

 

Uthvir still seems to respect him, somehow. Despite their lurid attitudes and frequent sexual indulgences, and their obvious knowledge of his inclinations. They still speak to Thenvunin with respect for his experiences, and not just when they are maintaining their ruse or getting him into bed, either. They are patient with him, Thenvunin thinks, but he also does not really feel as though they are exerting a great deal of effort on that. They almost never mention it. He supposes they are harder to annoy than some of his previous partners.

 

He has no idea, really, how they have managed to keep a good opinion of him. But it seems that they _have,_  and with that knowledge, he also has no clue of what might put things over the edge and finally rid them of it. Finally banish the last lingering bit of respect from their eyes, and turn their fervent passions into something more dismissive.

 

They seem to want his regard, too. They might even be a little needy for it, and Thenvunin… has never really had to deal with that. He has had partners who wanted him to stroke their egos, but that doesn’t seem to be the case with Uthvir.

 

He is beginning to think that they might just want… what he wants.

 

But that is a dangerous line of thinking. If he has it wrong - and he has had it wrong before - then… well…

 

He prefers not to contemplate it.

 

Any of it.

 

Even if it is rather stressful, at times, to try and balance everything. To try and figure out where this courtship is leading, and what either of them are really after with it. Uthvir is baffling. But Thenvunin’s own responses to them can be even more confusing. Sometimes he thinks he should do his level best to give them the benefit of the doubt, and treat this courtship which is going the way one is __meant__  to go. But part of him also knows that courtships have never really gone that way, in his own life experiences, and it seems perilous and naive to think that this one will.

 

He cannot deny that he is terrified of losing Uthvir’s good opinion of him, though.

 

Nor that he has no idea where it has come from, and subsequently, no thought on _how_  it might be lost, either.

 

Which is why he finally bites the bullet and goes to his brother for advice.

 

Aelynthi has married. Victory is a good man, and a loving spouse, and a strong partner. He respects Aelynthi and treats him well, and despite their many disagreements over the years, the two have never really parted, either. It is the most successful relationship he knows about. Thenvunin does not always find time to visit with his brother. They are busy people who travel in different circles, and time can pass quite swiftly in the city, without ever running short of things that must be done or distractions to pull people away from those they sometimes take for granted. But there is always time to catch up, too. So Thenvunin ventures to Aelynthi’s studio, and thence manages to track him down at an external art installation he is working on. One of several for the new fountains being installed along the market road.

 

Thenvunin finds him fussing over installation particulars with one of June’s engineers, shouting something about types of clay and design adjustments, before stalking off in a huff. He gets several paces before he notices Thenvunin.

 

“Oh!” he exclaims.

 

“Hello, Aelynthi,” Thenvunin greets. “Am I interrupting?”

 

His brother waves in a gesture that nearly manages to write off the entire outdoor work station.

 

“No, no, you have excellent timing, in fact. I need to cool my head,” he declares. “Are you here for me?”

 

Thenvunin nods.

 

“I thought I might take you out to lunch. It has been awhile…” he explains.

 

Aelynthi blinks. And then looks rueful. And then slightly guilty, for just a moment. He folds his arms.

 

“I've been very busy. But I suppose you are right,” he concedes. “It _has_  been a while. Let me just wash off some of this paint, and we can go.”

 

He heads for a small wash station, which seems to have been set up precisely for the artists, and their oftentimes messy work. Aelynthi’s clothes would not be suited to anything fancier than a dining hall, so that is where they go. Skipping the nearby Market District hall, which is always so busy, and heading for one near Elgar’nan’s residential district instead. Aelynthi tells him he eats here sometimes with Victory, and is assured that the food is good. They take a table underneath some cloud-patterned awnings, and exchange some typical news and chatter, before Thenvunin manages to pluck up the nerve to broach the subject at hand.

 

“I am seeing someone,” he admits.

 

Aelynthi pauses. And then takes a sip of his drink.

 

“Mother mentioned something about that,” he admits.

 

Thenvunin blinks.

 

“ _Faunalyn_  knows?” he asks, honestly baffled at first, before his brain catches up to him. Aelynthi's mother, Faunalyn, is a hunter. And Uthvir has been telling people in their circle about their exclusivity; so perhaps it is not actually all that strange.

 

His brother shrugs.

 

“Your avid little pursuer has not been quiet about it,” he says, before taking another bite of his food. His body language is nonchalant, but Thenvunin thinks he seems tense, too. “What are they like?”

 

Ah.

 

That seems like a predictable question. But somehow Thenvunin had not anticipated being called upon to describe Uthvir to his brother.

 

“They are…” he starts, and then stops. That would be the simple parts done, then. He taps the side of his glass. It is not that he cannot describe them, of course. How they look, how they speak, what they do. But it stymies him for a moment. None of that quite seems like it would get _Uthvir_  across, like it would almost be misleading, to just make a list of things about them without providing the proper context.

 

Aelynthi raises an eyebrow.

 

“Faunalyn says they are small and pretty and too much like Melarue,” he offers.

 

Thenvunin looks at him, aghast.

 

“They are not like _Nanae,”_ he insists. “And that is entirely - I mean, I suppose they are short, and pretty enough, but of all the things to describe… that is like saying Arlathan is ‘loud’ and ‘shiny’, it misses the point completely. Did she really say that? She thinks they are like Melarue? Why would she think they are like Melarue, they are not even…”

 

Thenvunin is about to list all the many ways in which Uthvir is not like Melarue, when he suddenly finds himself halted. They are both silver-tongued, he supposes. And both tend to wear inappropriately revealing outfits. Both have to balance difficult needs and reputations. Dark-haired, sharp-nailed, quick-witted…

 

He shakes his head as soon as the thought comes into it.

 

No.

 

Uthvir _is_  different. He is very sure of it. But the fact that they also have some undeniable similarities, now that he is paying attention, is… embarrassing.

 

Aelynthi snorts at him.

 

_“Relax,”_ he says. “You could do worse than finding someone like Nanae. Or Auntie Mirena, if that had been the case. Not everyone manages to find a partner who is utterly unlike _all_ their relatives.”

 

Thenvunin scowls at him.

 

“Victory is an awful lot like Faunalyn,” he mentions.

 

Aelynthi throws a pickle at his head.

 

It bounces off of him, and his scowl deepens reproachfully.

 

“Alright,” his brother concedes. “Let’s not go there. So they are a pretty little hunter who is not like Melarue, in ways we will not discuss. Are they treating you well?”

 

Thenvunin glowers a bit more, before finally relenting, and letting out a gusty sigh. At the look his brother gets, he hastens to clarify.

 

“They are!” he assures him. “They are… we have been courting for a while, and they have been very… they are very good. But, confusing, too. To be honest, I thought I might get your advice on it. You are the only person I know who has managed to do well with this sort of thing.”

 

Aelynthi blinks, and shifts in his seat. And drinks some more of his drink, before he clears his throat.

 

“Oh. Well. I think… I am not really an expert,” he admits. “It might be better to talk to Victory, in all honesty. He did most of the pursuing.”

 

“Uthvir is… pursuing,” Thenvunin confesses. He clears his throat, and lifts his head. And then lowers his voice, discreetly. “Uthvir is pursuing our courtship. They offered. I accepted. Only, it has been happening for a while, so we have reached a reciprocal stage. But I am not certain what they want.”

 

Aelynthi raises a brow.

 

“Have you asked them?” he wonders.

 

“Yes,” he admits, with a sigh.

 

“And?”

 

“They claim it is _me.”_

 

His brother regards him in silence for a moment. Then he leans back, and folds his arms, and nods to himself.

 

“You disbelieve them,” he surmises.

 

“It is not that I think they are lying,” Thenvunin hastens to clarify. “But they could be mistaken. There really is… not much reason for their enduring interest. In a courtship, I mean. If they were just after something they could have gotten it by now, surely.”

 

Aelynthi shifts his seat, and runs a hand down his face. He lets out the sound he usually makes when things have veered into uncomfortably personally territory. A sort of a sigh with just a hint of a groan. Not quite a protestation, but then, his brother has never really enjoyed delving into these matters.

 

“Have you considered the possibility that they just like you?” he asks.

 

Thenvunin purses his lips.

 

“Of course I have,” he says.

 

“And?” Aelynthi prods.

 

“And it… seems possible,” he concedes. “I have no idea why, though.”

 

“Have they not complimented anything about you?” his brother wonders.

 

Thenvunin fights to keep the heat from his cheeks at the thought of the last time Uthvir complimented him. He clears his throat, and quickly pushes his mind back towards safer territory.

 

“They have,” he admits.

 

“But you think they are insincere. Just buttering you up?” Aelynthi suggests.

 

Thenvunin dithers.

 

“It is not so simple. They _are_  sincere, I think. Most of the time. Some of it might be flattery, but they seem to mean a lot of it, or at least believe they do. But then again, I have never been the best at reading these sorts of things. I have made the mistake of thinking…”

 

He trails off.

 

“I have been wrong about people’s sincerity towards me before.”

 

His brother’s expression drops, and he lets out a long sigh of his own.

 

Aelynthi has made his own mistakes in love too, of course. But that is part of why Thenvunin supposes he is unlikely to find a better source of advice. His brother stares at their table for a moment, while Thenvunin tilts his head up to look at the awning, and wondering if he is being a fool. And of which sort, in that case.

 

“Well, if it is your own judgement you doubt, then perhaps I should meet this person,” Aelynthi decides.

 

Thenvunin freezes.

 

“What?”

 

His brother shrugs.

 

“Well, why not?” he wonders.

 

Given that they are lunching, for one incongruous moment, Thenvunin imagines this moment colliding with one of his more typical luncheons. Uthvir in some barely-there dress, with cushions strewn about. Trying to cuddle up to Thenvunin with his brother _right there,_  and just… no.

 

He makes a face.

 

“I think not,” he says. “It would be odd.”

 

“Why would it be odd?” Aelynthi wonders. “You know Victory.”

 

“Yes, but… that is different…”

 

“How?”

 

He sighs, and leans in, and lowers his voice.

 

“Because we have _a lot_  of sex, Aelynthi!” he hisses.

 

His brother finally does look at him as if he is an idiot, at that.

 

“Well, not to break it to you ungently, Thenvunin, but so do Victory and I,” he drawls. And then pauses, and wrinkles his own nose. “Did you think we did not?”

 

“No! It is different, though!” he insists.

 

“Why?”

 

“Because! It is!”

 

“Oh for the-! Is having sex _all_ you do? Is that why it is weird? Because you cannot think of them in a non-sexual context?”

 

Thenvunin opens his mouth, and then closes it again.

 

“No!” he says, because he and Uthvir certainly do things other than having sex. “Yes!” he then admits, because even when they are not having sex, there seems to be something sexual about the vast majority of their encounters. Or at least, something intensely charged. “I don’t know! I am not good at this, Aelynthi!”

 

“No one is. I once told Victory to get out of the city after he paid me too nice of a compliment,” his brother reminds him.

 

“I thought that ‘never happened’?” Thenvunin replies, surprised he would even mention it.

 

“It didn’t,” Aelynthi confirms. “The point is, this is just what courtship is like, Thenvunin. The whole idea of it is to spend enough time with someone that you figure out what you want from them, and them from you, and whether it is any good or if you should just move on and never speak again. There is always a risk of things going disastrously.”

 

“If things go _disastrously_  it could end my career,” he says, with more seriousness. And if his career ends… the prospects of low-ranking elves are rarely appealing.

 

“No. If things go disastrously, we hide the body and never speak of it again,” Aelynthi counters. Then he sighs. “Look, maybe the issue is that _you_  just don’t like _them._  Maybe they like you perfectly well. Maybe you just cannot believe in it because you do not actually reciprocate - you just like that someone is taking a genuine interest in you. That happens, sometimes.”

 

The way he says ‘sometimes’ manages to imply that this has, in fact, been a hallmark of about a third of Thenvunin’s relationships.

 

The better ones, anyway.

 

But something in Thenvunin revolts at the implication, and not in his usual fashion, either. He gives the matter some earnest thought for a moment, before finishing off his drink. Half of their lunch is getting cold and forgotten, but he has found his appetite mostly gone.

 

“I like them too,” he admits.

 

Aelynthi hums, and nods, and gives him a look that asks ‘then where is the actual problem?”

 

And Thenvunin cannot say. Does not know. But still knows there must be something.

 

“I should meet them,” Aelynthi decides, after a moment of awkward silence has dragged on.

 

“No,” Thenvunin counters, and then, for lack of a sufficient line of reasoning on that, stuffs a dumpling into his mouth to keep from talking anymore.

 

Needless to say, seeking Aelynthi’s advice does not prove as illuminating or miraculously insightful as Thenvunin had hoped. Though he obviously would not consider a pleasant lunch with his brother to be a loss, it just seems to make him feel even more conflicted about the matter of courtship. Or at least, it reminds him of how many times he has utterly failed at romance. Throwing himself in too soon, or too recklessly. Or withdrawing and holding off so much that people lost their patience and left. Or simply attracting a certain kind of person, like a candle beset by poisoned moths.

 

When he gets home, Screecher does not have any helpful insights, either. Nor does Bright Speck of Day, the little red bird which Uthvir gave him. Specky seems to get along surprisingly well with Screecher, much to his relief. The birds pester him for treats and then for scritches. Thenvunin plays with them for a few hours before one of his neighbours knocks on his door, to imperiously remind him that clogging up the deliveries box in the main courtyard is _discourteous._  Thenvunin hurries down, then, and finds a parcel with his name, neatly tucked into the deliveries box that is reserved for larger parcels. He uses his key to unlock it and scoops it up, and carries it back up to his room.

 

The parcel is light, and wrapped in red paper.

 

Another courting gift, he realizes. From Uthvir, of course. At this rate he is not going to even remotely catch up to them, and yet, somehow he cannot manage to be annoyed about it. They have never seemed to require him to match pace, at least. He finds a note beneath the first layer of wrapping on the parcel. Written on a piece of ivory cardstock, in lovely bronze penmanship.

 

_For hot nights._

_~Uthvir_

 

Thenvunin huffs, even as he feels his face heat at the possible implications. Such brevity! They could have at least written a poem. Though, no, he takes that back - any poetry they managed would probably be lewd in the extreme. This is a mercy, he decides, as he tucks the note into his pocket. Making a mental reminder to put it in his desk with the others, before he opens up the rest of the package.

 

For a moment, he is confused. There hardly seems to be anything in it. But then he shifts the last layer of wrapping, and something falls out.

 

Something thin. And gauzy. And translucent. Made from the same material as Uthvir’s preferred nightclothes, he thinks, but even lighter somehow. He swallows as he bends down, and picks up the pile of fallen fabric. A slip and a pair of stockings and… not much else, in fact. It looks to be in his size. Thenvunin puts it back into the packaging, and sits back for a moment. And then he opens it again, and plucks up the items once more.

 

…Well.

 

At least he knows for certain that they did not mind the look of him, when he… when, at… that time.

 

Either that or they are mocking him.

 

He can rather believe they liked the look of him, though. Given their ardor the time they found him in similar garb. It is probably a mixture, he decides, after a moment. Teasing him put also giving him lingerie to wear. Which they will likely expect him __to__  wear, unless he rejects the gift formally, of course.

 

Maybe he should, just to scold them for the presumption.

 

…He isn’t going to, though.

 

Instead, in the end, he tries on the articles for size. They… are not much to be worn, truth be told. The material shimmers over his skin, and feels smooth and scintillating. But it covers absolutely nothing, only just changing some of the hue and tone of the flesh beneath. The thinnest of veils. It clings in places, too, liking to stick to the parts of him that stick out. The muscles of his thighs and the backs of his calves, and his chest and shoulders. A few tiny ties keep the articles from falling right back off of him again.

 

Technically, he supposes, they fit.

 

He wonders how Uthvir might react to seeing him in them…

 

Not that he has to wonder, really. He could find out. He probably will, now, given that the articles fit. Likely he will be obliged to bring them to their next meeting. Perhaps wearing them under his regular clothes. They are thin enough. And then Uthvir will ask him how he liked their gift, and Thenvunin will, of course, at least __scold__  them for being so bold and for teasing him about The Incident.

 

Not that it will do much good.

 

It never seems to discourage them. Things would probably just escalate and then they would discover Thenvunin was wearing their gift, and give him that insufferably smug, delighted look. Probably drag him over to a mirror, just like the one he is standing in front of, and ruin yet another common household object for him.

 

Like they have so far managed to do with chairs and ribbons. He swallows at the recollection. Uthvir tying that ribbon on him, and then refusing to take it off unless… until… and then lounging in that _chair,_  with their arousal so blatantly on display, that smug look on their face. Widening as he finally came over. He had thought about facing them, but it is just… it is too unfair, to have to look at them, to __see__  them while they _see him _,__  witness all the undignified expressions he is making… but it had hardly been much of an improvement, in the end, to keep their back to them while he sat on their lap. He had needed to put an arm around them to keep his balance anyway.

 

_Look at me,_  they had said. With their hands gripping his hips.

 

And he had. As he keeps on doing. Turning towards them, again and again…

 

He swallows as his loins stir, and he watches the blatant evidence of his arousal rise in his reflection. He cannot say their methods are ineffective, in the end, however infuriating they might be. He gives half a thought to shooing the birds from his room and taking care of matters himself. And then he reconsiders.

 

This is all Uthvir’s doing anyway. And they are going to want to see him in their ‘gift’ sooner or later.

 

Really, he might as well just get it over with.

 

With a few steadying breaths, he pulls his day clothes back on over the flimsy scraps that Uthvir has the audacity to call ‘nightwear’, and heads back out to the street.

 

It will serve them right.

 

 

~

 

 

Uthvir presses a kiss to his wrist. Slow and careful and reverent enough that Thenvunin’s breath catches in his throat. Their lips are soft against his skin. Gentle and warm, as the sigh they let out caresses the same spot, and prompts a shiver from him. Their aura brushes against him, too. Just as warm and shockingly tender as the rest of the moment.

 

They lock gazes with him again. Thenvunin finds himself at a loss for words. Caught as Uthvir seems to seize upon some part of him that is more vulnerable than any physical place.

 

“I…” they say. Just briefly, before words seem to abandon them as well.

 

Thenvunin is not entirely surprise when they pull him down and kiss him.

 

But he is knocked off-balance again by the __way__  they do it. Hands framing his face, sharp teeth gone even though the kiss is fervent enough to steal the trapped breath from his lungs. They press up flush to him, standing on their toes, sliding their fingers back to tangle in his hair. Thenvunin’s mouth tingles. His skin does, too, in all the places where Uthvir is touching him.

 

When they finally break the kiss, Thenvunin feels a little unsteady on his feet.

 

“I love it,” they murmur against his lips. “I love your gift. Thenvunin. It is beautiful, no one else will ever lay eyes on it.”

 

In any other context, it would seem an odd declaration. But in this, it makes his heart speed up and his face heat, and that vulnerable part of his spirit that has come so unexpectedly to the fore __warms.__  As if it, too, is being touched. Thenvunin swallows. Uthvir frames his face again, and pulls him in for another kiss. And then another. The commissioned portrait is abandoned to the table where Uthvir had unwrapped it, as Thenvunin finds himself backed through their parlor doorway. Kissed all the way, but still without the usual clutching and clawing and groping he would expect.

  
It is nearly disappointing. And yet, it is the opposite of it, too. Somehow it makes him feel even more exposed, as their thumbs brush his cheeks, and their lips caress his lips. As they steady him from stumbling across the threshold, only to press him down to the nest of cushions in their sitting room. The intensity in the air between them robs him of words. His heart hammers too fast, and his hands find their shoulders. Trying to anchor himself in the midst of this unexpected reaction.

 

He had not known _what_ he expected.

 

There is heat in their eyes as they look down at him. But it is not the usual, lustful sort. Not the kind that makes his shiver with thoughts of what they have planned for him.

 

Instead, it is of the sort that makes his breath hitch, and his thoughts scatter. And his cheeks heat with a wholly different sort of fluster. For a moment he feels like he is several thousand years younger, and newer, and standing on the cusp of something he wants _so badly_  that he can scarcely articulate it.

 

He gets lost in Uthvir’s eyes.

 

He had not idea people could actually do that. It seems like the sort of thing that should only happens in books.

 

But then they close their eyes. Taking pity, he would think, except that there is just the faintest hint of tentativeness to their next touch. They brush his hair back out of the way, and kiss the pulse point of his throat.

 

“I love your gift,” they say again. A soft murmur. If Thenvunin did not know any better, he might mistake it for a far more intimate confession.

 

His hands stay on their shoulders. Their fingers begin to gently unlace the ties of his tunic.

 

“...That, that is… good…” he manages to get out. His voice sounds quiet in his own ears. Uthvir’s mouth trails kisses up and down his neck, and across his jaw, and then back to his lips. Their hands gently start to undo the various fastenings of his outfit.

 

He swallows.

 

Well, he did anticipate _something_  along these lines, so far as reactions would go. Only it had been a rather complicated matter, acquiring the portrait. Finding someone trustworthy enough and skilled enough to paint it was a challenge. In the end, he had gone to Aelynthi. And. Well. There were only so many poses that one could comfortably do for a courtship portrait being made by one’s own kin. Compromises had to be made. His brother had offered some suggestions, and Thenvunin had debated and dithered and finally just… gone with what seemed like the best one.

 

Something tasteful.

 

Something classic.

 

Something irrefutably soft, and vulnerable, and damning should it ever land in the wrong hands.

 

He had thought to use the blanket. Red was becoming a fashionable colour, and, well… Uthvir could be predictable sometimes. Most times, possibly. He would be lying if he said he had not entertained thoughts of them purring and making inappropriate comments about ‘their’ colour, and pressing him down to their cushions and taking off his clothes and ravishing him on the spot.

 

Wholly anticipated, really. He had made certain to clear enough time that it would not be an issue, before presenting his gift.

 

But now…

 

Now, somehow, it is nothing at all like what he expected.

 

Uthvir’s nails are soft as they pull away his tunic and vest. Associations make him shiver, as their fingers brush the skin of his stomach, and start to undo the buckles of his belt. Their gaze is more than he can stand when they open their eyes again. Too much, somehow. Their stare makes his heart flip, so he turns his head to one side and looks at the nearest patch of embroidery instead.

 

They reach up to brush his jaw with their fingertips. Not exerting enough pressure to __make__  him look back at them. But somehow it is not within him to deny the request of three soft-nailed digits, drawing his gaze back towards them again. To the look in their eyes - half-lidded, now, but no less intense - as their lips part just a little, and their other hand finally pulls his belt away.

 

“I love…” they say.

 

Thenvunin’s breath stops.

 

He swears his heart does, too.

 

Uthvir’s throat bobs as they swallow.

 

“I love it when you look at me,” they say. And he is not certain if he is more relieved or disappointed. Not certain if he can even let himself think of what they almost… what he thought they were _going_  to say.

 

It was surely that.

 

The comment is wholly predictable in its inappropriateness. In its heated implications; even though the warmth in the air still feels, somehow, more tender than erotic. He shifts around a little, as the feel of Uthvir’s hands on him nevertheless provokes a certain manner of response.

 

“Look at me?” they request.

 

He takes in a long breath, and tries not to let it tremble on the way out.

 

“Alright. If you stop saying such things,” He murmurs back. Somehow his tone comes out far more breathless and beseeching than scolding or exasperated. Unexpectedly plaintive in the implications that Thenvunin may not find such activities inappropriate so much as __overwhelming.__  He has to resist the urge to hide his face again at the slip.

 

Uthvir only smiles, though, just a little - their most dangerous smile, the one that is sweet instead of sharp - and nods in acquiescence. Before they lean down to kiss him again.

 

And they in fact manage not to speak for a long while after that, despite never having pulled off such a feat before. Thenvunin finds it is almost worse, somehow. To look at them, and see __them__  looking at __him.__  To have no words break through the feelings that keep filling the air between them, as they caress him with maddeningly gentle touches, and kisses. Their hands framing and brushing and tracing over certain parts of him, until his skin is tingling, and their movements somehow convey what their words often do anyway. Yet with far more reverence than he knows what to do with.

 

When they finally finish undressed him, Thenvunin does not think he has every felt so wholly exposed before in his life. Not even when he was stripped down before the healers on his twenty-fifth birthday. Uthvir’s own sheer tunic slopes from their shoulders; their leggings having been kicked aside at some point.

 

He is too busy looking at their eyes. He does not notice their nails growing again until he feels the tips of them tracing over his skin. Not hard enough to scratch, but sharp enough that every long, slow pass of them over his chest and stomach and thighs makes him tingle. His arousal grows, rising in a low, simmering heat that seems… atypical of any interaction he has had before. So slow and unhurried, undeniable and, yet, almost not the focus of the encounter at all.

 

Uthvir brushes their hands over it just as they have done every other accessible part of him.

 

He bites his lip, to keep from asking them to touch him more firmly.

 

And then at last he reaches his breaking point. He closes his eyes, and turns his head, and rocks his hips beseechingly.

 

__“Uthvir,”__  he asks.

 

He bites down a sound of frustration as they let go of him. But then they crawl back up towards him. Spreading their legs over him, pressing their own wet, heated sex to him as they plaster themselves to his chest and seek his lips for more kisses. Reflexively, he rocks his hips upwards again. Seeking friction. He clenches his hands in the cushions, before a sudden streak of boldness seizes him, and he places them on their back instead.

 

Uthvir rubs themselves against him, purring in approval and clutching him all the more tightly. But it is still just… caresses, he thinks. Skin against skin. Nothing penetrates. Nothing seizes or demands or breaks the unexpected gentleness of the interaction. And even though part of him is nearly desperate for __something__  to, part of him is also trembling like an aspen at the implications of such tenderness.

 

“Thenvunin,” Uthvir whispers, and the only description that would fit their tone is one he cannot let himself think of.

 

__“Thenvunin.”_ _

 

He keeps his eyes shut.

 

…And his hands upon them.

 

“Please,” he whispers, again. “Uthvir, I __can’t…”__

 

The sudden projection of reassurance is unexpected enough that his eyes open again. His heart leaps, and Uthvir looks at him as if they _know,_  as if they know and _understand._  They kiss him soundly, one last time. Then they start to move against him. Not as precise nor as consistent a rhythm as they usually employ. His cock brushes against them, each inconsistent stroke arousing and frustrating by the same token.

 

But their grip is strong and sure, and their teeth finally settle against the side of his neck. Thenvunin sighs in a strange sort of relief. He rocks his hips up to meet them, chasing a more typical pleasure. At least until they finally sit up and slide him into themselves, and ride him as he alternates between stealing glances at their form above him, and hiding the traitorous emotions on his face. Too difficult to conceal, even, then the tumult of emotions in the air.

 

He groans as they tighten around him, and finally draw him to a completion that feels oddly like a rush of relief. At least until they keep going, moving more gently but still moving nonetheless. Rolling their hips and reaching for his hands, and lacing their fingers together. Then he cannot help looking at them, somehow. Seeing their face as they finally make one last move around his softening cock, so close to overwhelming him again that his breaths are ragged, and come around him.

 

The way their eyelids flutter and their pleasure tints the air around them is near-mesmerizing.

 

For a long moment, the only sound in the room is that of them panting.

 

Then they fold against him, as they are so want to do. Plastering themselves across his chest, sweaty and sated and still insistently full of touches. They press a sloppy kiss to his mouth and slide him out from inside of them, and stretch, like a cat which has just found the perfect sunbeam, If that sunbeam were Thenvunin. They settle his hands against their hips and brush away more of his hair again, before burying their nose against the skin behind one of his ears.

 

“Thank you,” they say.

 

It takes him far too long to manage to clear his throat.

 

“You are welcome,” he replies.

 

 

~

 

 

Thenvunin stares at the empty drawer in Uthvir’s closet.

 

The narrow one, just next to one of the bigger compartments and some shelf space he has been allotted, and started to make frequent use of. His armour pieces are still laid out neatly onto said shelf; the rest of his outfit retrieved from the bag he brought with him yesterday.

 

And this one, small drawer, is empty.

 

Oh no.

 

No, no, no.

 

He could have __sworn__  he had stocked it with some fine underthings just… a few weeks ago?

 

His mind races backwards, as he suddenly recollects the pair that he had lost somewhere in the gardens near Uthvir’s building. And the other pair, that had been bitten through to ribbons a week before. He pulls the drawer further out, hoping something might have simply gotten caught at the back of it. But there is nothing except a soft, velvet lining, and the completely absence of usable underclothes.

 

He swallows.

 

It would not be… he cannot __possibly__  attend this function without undergarments. The very thought is appalling. The soft, tight fabric of his formal wear brushes against his bare skin, and he fights back the inappropriate rush of heat that the thought conjures, too. But only in vain. He closes the drawer, and finds his mind momentarily racing. Caught up in thoughts of Uthvir’s reaction, if they were to discover such a thing. Perhaps while one of their hands wandered beneath a banquet table. The abrupt pause in their movements, when they realized they could find no strap nor ties to fiddle with at the top of his leg. And then the exploratory range of their touch, confirming…

 

Thenvunin swallows again, cheeks heating, hips shifting. He inwardly curses as he feels his nether regions start to __perk up.__

 

_Now is **not**  the time!_ he tells himself, sternly.

 

Uthvir is still finishing up their own outfit, mercifully in the other room. Thenvunin thinks. They kept activities to the bedroom last night, and he was certainly wearing underthings _then._  So there is a pair. Somewhere. He just has to find where they might have gotten to.

 

His memory is decidedly unhelpful, as backtracking events conjures up the recollection of Uthvir’s mouth on his… on, places. But he had been hiding his face when they had finally divested him of his underthings. Somewhere near the bed, that is for certain, but it does not narrow things down much. Nor do him any favours in containing his unruly __reaction.__

 

He strides uncomfortably out of the closet and into the bedroom, and knowing Uthvir, checks for signs of any underthings that might have gotten caught on the canopy of their bed or the fixtures on the walls. Then he moves towards the bed itself, and picks through the sheets. Before crouching down to check underneath it, and rifling through some of the fallen cushions beside it.

 

__Uthvir__  might know what they did with Thenvunin’s underthings, of course. Considering that __they__  were watching every moment of the whole spectacle, and were also the one to put them someplace. Or at least toss them in a general direction. They had been very growl-y last night, so it could have been either option.

 

Thenvunin glances down at himself.

 

Maybe if he sits it will be less… obvious?

 

He perches gingerly on the edge of the bed.

 

It doesn’t help.

 

If anything it makes the matter _worse._

 

Part of him is compelled to just, find a cushion or something and lodge it in his lap. But Uthvir would know. And a further part of him - a part of him that is becoming increasingly inconvenient - shoves his usual inhibitions aside with an exasperated huff and prods him to make the stupidest decision ever.

 

“Uthvir?” he calls, to the next room.

 

There is a soft rustle of fabric; a padding of footsteps, while Thenvunin internally curses himself, and considers crossing his legs, and wonders if he could find an angle that would make his ‘problem’ less obvious. And so that is how he ends up spreading his legs and blushing instead, when Uthvir walks into the room; one hand still at their right earlobe, spelling an earring into its final place.

 

“Did you need…”

 

They stop dead in their tracks and trail off at the sight of him.

 

And despite his better judgement, Thenvunin cannot help feel a certain amount of… __something,__  when their eyes widen, and their cheeks darken __just a little,__  and a rush of arousal startles out of them and into the air around them.

 

They stare at him.

 

Thenvunin’s face feels as though it might catch fire. His own arousal worsens at their reaction, and then again when he actually takes in what __they__  are wearing.

 

Ironically, it is an outfit that he would tentatively deem ‘acceptably modest’ for the scale of the event they are attending. Red, of course, but tonight that is not because of Uthvir - Sylaise’s fashions have veered sharply towards the colour for this decade. And Uthvir is fully covered, even elegant, in an off-shoulder gown with a graceful train and a full sash belt.

 

It should __lessen__  his reaction, he thinks. But they look…

 

…Stunning.

 

They move towards him, _stalking,_ like a cat that has just cornered a bird. Hands on their hips, as that note of arousal clings to them like a second skin.

 

“Something you need help with?” they purr. Looking straight at the obvious outline of his arousal.

 

Thenvunin never should have settled on an outfit so __tight__ , no matter how bold he felt while he was commissioning it.

 

He clears his throat, and shifts against the edge of the bed.

 

“I cannot find my underthings,” he confesses.

 

Uthvir blinks, a moment. Clearly not expecting that response. But they recover quickly, as they lean in a bit closer. Somehow, Thenvunin’s intention to scold them - to remind them that they have somewhere __important__  to be - dies in his throat. But Uthvir only reaches over, and brushes a strand of hair behind his ear. Close enough that he can feel their interest __keenly,__  before they hum, and move back. And then they tap at their lips, as if there is nothing at all untoward about this scenario.

 

“I think I threw them,” they admit. Casting their gaze upwards, they begin checking the canopy.

 

“I looked there,” Thenvunin supplies. Uthvir actually gets up onto the bed, though, and does a more thorough search. And as they make their own assessment of the upper reaches of the room, Thenvunin supposes he might as well go back to looking, too. He gets up, trying not to feel the slight draft on his nethers so keenly - trying not to __shiver,__  as he starts checking the floor again.

 

It only makes sense. If Uthvir is looking up, Thenvunin should look down.

 

And if that should happen to involve a lot of bending over…

 

Well, what else can he do?

 

It is _uncomfortable,_  walking around in these tight red clothes, with his erection insistently demanding attention. He shifts his hips and checks behind a dresser, and does so again as he bends low to rifle through some cushions. Feeling eyes turn to him, every so often; until Uthvir hops down from inspecting that tops of some of their bedroom fixtures, and then moves in behind him.

 

Thenvunin swallows down a sound as they press up against his back, and wrap an arm around his chest.

 

“Can we be late?” they purr at him.

 

It takes Thenvunin a moment to recollect that truly… they cannot.

 

Well, Uthvir could be. Uthvir could fail to show up entirely, and it would hardly cost them at all. But this is a General’s gala. Thenvunin showing up late or passing on his invitation would, at best, be read as insulting disinterest in the social hierarchy of his Lady’s forces. At worst, it could be perceived as a slight.

 

“Absolutely not,” he says. And though he means to sound stern, it comes out more regretful than anything.

 

Uthvir hums as if they had expected that response, though. They rub their palm against his chest, in a gesture that is strangely comforting - even as it does nothing to quell the heat in his loins. The feel of them pressed up against his back is also not helpful in that regard, even if they had shown enough restraint to not simply start grinding their hips against him.

 

“Well, then, you will simply have to borrow a pair of mine,” they say.

 

Thenvunin’s mind blanks for a full second.

 

And then another.

 

Long enough to leave him wavering in place as Uthvir lets him go, and moves towards their closet. Finally, he blinks, and swallows. And tries to find a suitable response to that. To the prospect of wearing… well. Certainly, of course, he has worn some of Uthvir’s clothes before. Nightclothes and robes and… and, some things along those lines. But this is… there is… this another thing all together.

 

And Thenvunin does not know how he is supposed to make it through an entire evening like that.

 

Even with his armour in place this outfit is fairly tight.

 

He has not managed to find his words before Uthvir makes a satisfied sound - and __that__  certainly helps __nothing__  by way of associations - and comes back out, holding up a scrap of red fabric with some ribbons attached.

 

“There is no chance that is __fitting__  me!” Thenvunin finally manages to exclaim, even as he feels his skin heat all over at the implications. Oh if only they did not have to - but they _do,_ and for a moment he is genuinely afraid that Uthvir is going to expect him to put aside an important function for the sake of sating their lusts.

 

They wouldn’t…

 

Would they?

 

“I think we can make this work,” they tell him, with a wink.

 

“Uthvir…” he begins. Mouth going dry as they make their way back towards him. But somehow the protestations he knows he should make do not come. He just shivers again as Uthvir slides down to their knees in front of him, and squeezes his thighs, before pulling up the front of his crimson loincloth. They glance up at him, expression pure heat, before they take the flimsy little bits of string and cloth.

 

Another protest dies as they begin to slide the ribbon straps over the tops of his hips, and presses that insufficient __scrap__  of red smallclothes to his erection. His breath catches at the feel of the fabric, and the heat of their hand. The way they are __looking__  at him, as if he is a sight worthy to behold. As if it is taking every ounce of their strength to keep from devouring him on the spot.

 

He is expecting them to offer some flimsy lamentation that their underthings are __too small.__  Oh dear. And how it seems that they will have to miss the gala or be late after all.

 

He is __not__  expecting for the scrap of fabric to expand, and tingle, and then… __conceal__  him.

 

A gasp escapes him. He steadies himself with a hand on their shoulder, nearly expecting pain for some reason. But there is no pain. Just a subtle illusion, he thinks. Masking his arousal well enough that when Uthvir winks, and rights his clothing again, it is not visible at all.

 

His bafflement must show on his face, because they offer an explanation as they straighten back up.

 

“Not a pair I have ever had much use for. One of my old patrons gifted it to me - they had certain assumptions about my shape-shifting abilities, and it was not the only thing they liked to make assumptions about. But I did wear them a time or two. I must say, they look _much_  better on you.”

 

Thenvunin clears his throat, his mind slow to catch up. Not surprisingly, he supposes, with all his blood still rushing south.

 

“It is an illusion-?” he ventures.

 

“Just so!” Uthvir confirms. “We will have to wait until after the gala to take care of your __other__  issue, but at least that is something to look forward to.” Smirking, they head over to the closet, and gather up the remaining pieces of Thenvunin’s attire.

 

He still feels slightly dazed as they dress him, and the rest of what they have said catches up with him.

 

“What admirer?” he asks, trying - and failing - not to feel every brush of their fingers so keenly.

 

Uthvir glances up from where they are fitting pieces of his armour onto him. Belatedly, Thenvunin starts fastening the pieces himself.

 

“Hm?” they ask.

 

“What __admirer__  made assumptions about you?” he insists.

 

They wave off the question.

 

“Oh, no one I bother with anymore,” they assure him.

 

He is about to press the matter further when they reach upwards to settle his armaments onto his shoulders. The feel of their hands sliding around his jaw captures his attention. As does the sudden press of their lips, as they pull him down into a searing kiss.

 

Then they move to tie the ties for his armaments, and Thenvunin finds he has thoroughly lost his train of thought.

 

“Try not to get __too__  distracted at the gala,” they advise.

 

Their lips are still close enough for him to feel their breath brush across his mouth, words like gentle touches all in their own right. It is appallingly difficult to resist the urge to lean back down and kiss __them__  in return.

 

After a half a second, Thenvunin decides it is, in fact, not really worth fighting it.

 

Uthvir stills in turn as he lifts their chin with a touch, and closes his eyes, and presses a lingering kiss to their lips. Their fingers falter a little at the ties they are still tying. Before they recover enough to kiss him back, hungry and just fierce enough to make him doubt that they will get out of the room in time for the gala all over again.

 

But after a moment they move back. Securing the last tie before sliding his belt into place.

 

They give him a hooded look as they tighten it. Pulling just sharply enough to draw him forwards, mimicking a thrust of his hips. He bites his lip to keep from embarrassing himself. The mutual arousal in the air is thick.

 

“Later,” they promise.

 

Thenvunin has never felt so untowardly impatient in his __life.__


	15. Chapter 15

Uthvir does not usually leave Arlathan, special hunting occasions excepted.

 

It is simply not wise for a person of their position, nor their ambitions. In Arlathan, there is _always_  something going on. Events to attend. Parties to throw. Festivals to arrange. Meetings and celebrations and memorials and performances and ceremonies to plan. It had taken Uthvir decades to establish themselves as an event planner among Andruil’s ranks, and Andruil’s ranks did not offer especial competition, compared to some. It had taken them the better part of a century to leverage their influence among the hunters of the city into influence over city-wide events, and participation in a bevy of planning councils and event arrangements.

 

Time away from Arlathan is time enough for some equally ambitious interloper to fill the spaces they leave behind, and become intractable in them.

 

Uthvir would know; that is precisely what they did to several of the other event coordinators in the city. Taking advantage of absences in order to ensconce themselves, and then digging their claws into the positions they had gained and refusing to be budged back out of them. Regaining Andruil’s favour is dependent upon the good esteem of __one__  remarkable person. Maintaining their standing in Arlathan is far more of a juggling act; and they need to be present in order to catch the balls.

 

But there are some times where it grows easier to take more than a rest day or two.

 

The wake of the city’s anniversary celebrations is usually just such a time. With so many city resources and so much fanfare dedicated to the festivities, there is usually a subsequent three month period where further celebrations are considered __uncouth.__  

 

Not everyone abides by the expectations, of course. In fact it is fairly common for the Lower City to play host to a number of smaller parties and gatherings, as the Peacekeepers take their rest leave and the rest of the city lulls into a kind of tired aftermath. But that has only led to associations with lowbrow behaviour and post-anniversary parties. By the time Uthvir took up their post, it was already a well-established fact of social planning that one did not trail an anniversary celebration with another gathering. Not if they wanted to manage upper-crust events.

 

What it all boils down to, though, is that Uthvir has three months of grace period wherein they might travel.

 

Usually they spend the time looking into new trade contacts and discovering new crafters and caterers that might add unique appeal to their events.

 

But in light of their… of some other things, when they learn that Thenvunin has a month’s worth of time in the same period to consider resting, they begin to plan things out differently.

 

There are many beautiful locales in Andruil’s territories. Though most of them veer more towards a natural ruggedness than the sort of cultivated, tamed beauty of the city. Visaliran, however, is Andruil’s main hub of trade and commerce. Not a city which their Lady tends to frequent herself in past centuries, it was nevertheless one of the first significant locations to fall to her in conquest. A temperate woodland, located just off the coast and near to Ghilan’nain’s borders, it had housed an elaborate shrine for superstitious worship to fanciful hunting deities of old. At least in the days before it was civilized.

 

Then foundations had been laid in. The shrine was replaced with a market, and one of the most lucrative sapphire mines in any territory was established. There was a military fort, though hostile waters patrolled by Ghilan’nain’s beasts made the best defense of the region. They also meant that the short-lived fishing trade had died in its tracks. Most food was imported to Visaliran, but that just added to the necessities of trade. The island was too rocky for arable farmland, but it was uniquely suited to the construction of stone buildings and monuments, with many exotic gardens.

 

And, most importantly, the only native wildlife to still claim the region as home are birds.

 

But Uthvir has it on good authority that there are _a lot_  of birds.

 

They present the idea to Thenvunin tentatively. Unaccountably nervous over it, as they enjoy one of their now-routine walks through the city. The weather is bright. Thenvunin has been in an uncommonly good mood, and Uthvir has staked an unabashed claim on his arm.

 

“I have some business that will take me outside of the city for the next month,” they say.

 

Thenvunin’s light expression drops somewhat, and his brow furrows.

 

“During my leave time?” he asks. They are not certain if they are imagining the crestfallen tone to his voice.

 

“Yes, just then,” they confirm. “I am going to Visaliran. The trade city, you know?”

 

That earns them a frown.

 

“That is a long trip,” he says.

 

“Hmm,” they reply, in a tone of agreement. “Not too long by the crossroads, of course. But perhaps a little perilous. There have been reports of some robberies among the traders there - though I doubt it will impact me much. Lone travelers do not seem to be targeted.”

 

Thenvunin’s expression turns downright disapproving at that. He reclaims his arm from them, so he can fold both across his chest.

 

“That is preposterous logic. Lone travelers are the most vulnerable targets,” he insists. “You should not travel so far alone under _any_  circumstances, but particularly not with reports like that around.”

 

“It will be fine, I am sure,” Uthvir insists. “I will just dress humbly. Forgo any particularly fancy armaments or jewelry…”

 

The man takes the bait more thoroughly than they expect.

 

“Absolutely not,” he says.

 

Uthvir raises an eyebrow.

 

“No?”

 

“No.” Thenvunin takes a deep breath, and lets it out through his nose. “If you are set on going, then at the very least you should not go alone. If I must sacrifice my leave time to attend to it, then I will go with you myself.”

 

They grin at him.

 

“Well, if you insist on coming along, I certainly will not protest,” they declare, and see the light of suspicion come into his eyes.

 

“And just where did you hear these reports of dangerous roads?” he wonders.

 

They shrug.

 

“I do not think I can recall.”

 

“Hmm.”

 

Despite catching them out on one front, however, Thenvunin does not withdraw his offer. He takes a lot of time to complain about the hassle, but he intersperses that with asking Uthvir about the island and fretting over his wardrobe and travel routes and the lodgings they will be staying at, and getting his relatives to look after his birds, and other things that all somehow make Uthvir inconceivably fond.

 

They rent a cart for their bags - enchanted, rather than beast drawn; they are not looking to make especially impressions, of course - and leave in the early morning. Uthvir spends the first half of the trip riding, while Thenvunin walks alongside them. They switch for the latter half, when Thenvunin has calmed down enough to stop acting like he expects bandits to rush them at any moment. He looks quite regal, they think, in his deep blue tunic and gear, with his hair braided back. Elegantly perched in front of the luggage.

 

The roads are quiet, so Uthvir pays him compliments until he is red-faced and his arms are crossed, and his legs are crossed, too.

 

When they cross the last bridge to Visaliran, however, he gets down, and walks with them through the gate.

 

Uthvir feels a hand at their elbow. With some pleased surprise, they shift enough to let Thenvunin slip his arm through theirs, and then make their way through the last eluvian. The bleached white tiles of the crossroads path vanish in a whirl of magic, and are replaced with a gateway lined by opalescent blocks, and a road peppered with flecks of sapphire in the mixed stone. It arcs downwards; the eluvian is situated at the highest point of the island, with a small garden landing around it. When they make their way to the little rest area, they can see a full view of Visaliran spread out below them.

 

The waters shine like the gems pulled from its mines. Most of the buildings are white, put with sloped, decorative rooftops painted in riotous colours. Andruil’s lack of strict aesthetic guidelines has afforded her territories a diverse range of styles, but none so much as Visaliran, Uthvir thinks. They have no real idea what the inspiration of it all is, but the effect is stunning. Rounded buildings float like orbs at the perimeter of the island. Special facilities afforded to their Lady’s wife, from which the security beasts in the waters are expertly monitored.

 

The island fortress is a simple building; a square set of barracks in the midst of the inner city walls. But the outposts are far more colourful. Bright balloons carrying baskets the size of buildings drift out over the open waters. Lookout posts. Several squared, raised stone block rise up out of the ocean, past the round aquariums. Landing points, for if the weather becomes too violent for the balloons to remain aloft. But the atmosphere is overwhelmingly calm, and the environmental wards potent.

 

The cause for that is apparent in the spirit energy running through circuits laid out along the city roads. Natural sea spirits, caught and circulated throughout the island, to help augment the sacrificial energy sources. Unlike most spirit-based systems, Visaliran has one which lets most of the sea spirits live. Provided they survive their circuit throughout the city, Uthvir knows, the pipes will eventually lead them back to the ocean waters. That is what propels them, in fact; the spirits race through the city, following the only path that will lead them back home.

 

Thenvunin’s eyes are on the trees, though, as they stop to catch their breath. And on the huge stone pillars, where purple-crested birds are nesting.

 

“Oh,” he sighs, eyes flitting everywhere at once. “How lovely! Uthvir, look, there are nests _everywhere!”_

 

He gestures upwards, and Uthvir sees that he is quite right. Between the wards keeping them from interfering too much in the city roads, the multitude of native birds seemed to have quite alright for themselves. Visaliran has a fair amount of natural real estate left to it, particularly along the beaches and in the outer city.

 

“We should get settled in,” they say. “And then we can go sightseeing.”

 

“Do you have to attend to business straight away?” Thenvunin wonders.

 

“Not at all,” they reply, honestly. They wonder how long it will take him to realize that their only business in Visaliran is making certain Thenvunin has a good vacation.

 

It probably says something about them that they have taken such a circuitous route to getting him here. But it is something they decide not to think about, as they carry on arm-in-arm, drawing their cart along and trying to find their appropriate lodgings. The building is in the outer city ring; a less secure housing block in the unlikely event of invasion, but one which affords beautiful views of the sapphire seas. On the opposite end of the island from the mines, too. Their reserved space is a small building, connected to a row of others, and taller than it is wide. The first floor is a small entertaining area, and the second is a pair of bedrooms; the third is a private bath, much to Uthvir’s shock. A raised tub is surrounded by long windows, that provide the best view in the place.

 

They and Thenvunin both take a long look at the bath. Uthvir might expect there to be some sort of error in their lodgings, but the district is indeed appropriate to their rank, and the address fits; and their keystone had matched the wards.

 

“We should… take care of some of the dust. From the road,” Thenvunin ventures, after a moment.

 

“Absolutely,” Uthvir agrees, and goes to retrieve the necessary bags from their luggage.

 

They come back to find Thenvunin already in the massive tub. The water is running from a fountain set into the wall, and two of the windows have been opened at the top. Uthvir hears birdsong, as they set out their respective bathing things within easy reach. Then they strip, too, and climb into the bath; settling opposite Thenvunin, and letting their gaze drift between the view from the windows, and the view laid out before them.

 

Thenvunin, for his part, keeps his eyes closed, and looks like he is finally unclenching some of those perpetually-clenched muscles of his.

 

He softens even more when Uthvir adds some of his favourite scented salts to the bath.

 

“Are you going to fall asleep?” they wonder.

 

He makes a vaguely defensive sound; although he neither opens his eyes nor tenses back up again.

 

“It was a long trip,” he murmurs.

 

It was, they suppose. Their own muscles are grateful for the warm water, too. Especially after the long trek down from the eluvian. So after a moment they subside, and opt to enjoy this start to their rest time instead. They lean against Thenvunin’s legs, and lazily brush a hand up and down one, and let their own eyes slide shut. The birdsong is quite pretty, they realize. As is the distant sound of waves lapping against the nearest beach.

 

The water turns off, and the ambiance gets even better.

 

Uthvir does not quite recollect drifting off.

 

But when they wake, the room is nearly dark. The water is cool, and Thenvunin is snoring. They warm the bath again with a spell, and gesture at some of the nearby lights. Wall sconces come slowly to life, as they sit up, and gently shake Thenvunin awake.

 

“Mrmm?” he mumbles. Blinking his eyes open, and just blearily pulling himself up to the edge of the tub.

 

He seems as boneless as he usually does after they have fucked the wits out of him.

 

“I think we should actually _wash,_  all things considered,” Uthvir suggests. Their own voice still sounds thick with sleep. Thenvunin just sort of nods, and scrubs at his face a little. The tub is big enough for him to turn, so they coax him into doing so. Trying to wake up a bit more as they pull his hair into their hands, and set about washing it for him. Along with his back, too. He sighs, and leans into their touch.

 

Uthvir feels a slight twist, at the show of trust.

 

They get his hair rinsed out, and wrapped up into a towel, before they wrap their arms around Thenvunin’s shoulders and lean in closer to him.

 

“I must confess,” they whisper. “I brought you here under false pretenses.”

 

Thenvunin snorts.

 

“I know,” he says. “There were no robbings. I looked into it.”

 

They hum in acknowledgement, and feel that __twist__  even more when Thenvunin pats at their hand.

 

“It still would have been dangerous to travel alone,” he insists.

 

Uthvir kisses his temple.

 

“It is worse than that,” they admit. “I do not even have business in Visaliran. Well, not any business outside of spending some time with you.”

 

Thenvunin stills at the admission. Uthvir waits, and despite the lingering comfort of the atmosphere, tenses up just a little. Waiting to see how he will react. They cannot see his face from this angle, but they can feel the surprise in him. The slight twitch of it pressing outwards, followed up by confusion. And then something warmer, something Thenvunin puts away before they can spend much attention on it.

 

“I do not understand,” he says.

 

Uthvir lets him go and turn around again. They occupy their hands with the wash cloth, and their eyes with themselves for a moment, as they play casual.

 

“Well, an indirect route seems to be a bit better at getting you to loosen up. And if we tried to rest in Arlathan, something would doubtless keep coming up. Besides, I have some unspent credit just perfect for this sort of thing.”

 

They let out a breath, and look at him again.

 

He looks stricken.

 

But in a good way or a bad way?

 

“Uthvir!” he admonishes. “You could have simply told me!”

 

They shrug.

 

“Yes, probably,” they admit. “Circuitousness may be a bad habit of mine.”

 

Thenvunin huffs at them.

 

“Well then it is undoubtedly to your benefit that you have someone as straightforward as I am around,” he decides. But he does not seem angry. Uthvir raises their eyebrow, and grins at him. And they are pleasantly surprised when he tugs them closer, and takes the wash cloth from their hands.

 

“So I have you all to myself?” he asks.

 

His voice is still a little rough from sleep. Uthvir shivers pleasantly at it.

 

“You do. For anything you might have in mind,” they say.

 

“And you have _me_  all to _yourself._  I suppose I will need to bring up my strength for your attentions,” he says. “Are we actually going to leave this little lodging space, or are you planning on turning me into your love slave?”

 

He blushes at the bold accusation.

 

Uthvir grins, and leans in to claim a kiss. They shift against him. Sliding a leg between his own, and dipping a hand below the water to fondle him a little.

 

“Maybe for a few days,” they say. “But we will certainly do other things. If you like. We could go bird watching, and visit the market. I have a fair bit saved up for the occasion, and I suspect you would look good in sapphires. Swimming in the sea is too perilous, but we could visit one of the public aquariums, too…”

 

Thenvunin looks a little floored, and a little flustered.

 

“You really did plan this out, didn’t you?” he murmurs.

 

They cannot help but kiss him again.

 

“I did,” they confess.

 

As far as confessions of deceitful conduct tend to go, they rank it as one of the most successful they have ever had.

 

 

~

 

 

“You are under-dressed,” Thenvunin insists.

 

Uthvir responds by leaning against their doorframe, and giving him a long once-over. They raise an eyebrow when their gaze gets back to his face.

 

He looks as though as he has just done something he was very determined to do.

 

“Oh?” they ask, after a pointed pause. “I was not aware we were going out.”

 

Though the scarlet corset and loose pants they are wearing would, with just a few accessories, be pretty sufficient for wandering around the city in.

 

By their standards, anyway.

 

Thenvunin purses his lips and frowns at them.

 

“We most certainly are not,” he says. “You are under-dressed for entertaining company! That is - you are wearing _lingerie!”_

 

They aren’t. But the fact that he would claim as much makes their lips twitch.

 

“Just because you find me thoroughly ravishable does not mean the effect is intentional, Thenvunin,” they say, before finally beckoning him inside.

 

He bristles.

 

“As it if is not! And as if I do! I would never!” he snaps.

 

_Too tense,_  they think. While they do not know the cause of it, the symptoms of a long day are obvious. Thenvunin enters their apartment with a rigid spine and a slightly clenched jaw. The muscles in his neck look strained, and his gait is stiff and unhappy.

 

Any other person of Thenvunin’s stature and skill, sporting such a demeanour, would make Uthvir cautious.

 

But in this case, they only shut the door behind him, and let out a wistful sigh.

 

“Pity. I suppose I will just have to keep trying to entice you,” they say, with a wink.

 

Thenvunin shakes his head at them.

 

“You are thoroughly incorrigible,” he insists. “And you are going to get yourself into insurmountable troubles one day.”

 

“Perhaps,” they concede, with a shrug.

 

It does not take much to get Thenvunin to settle down onto some of their lounging cushions, though. They hadn’t been expecting him, truth be told - probably why he decided to get all stuffy about their attire. They have noticed he seems to get touchier about it when he thinks they might be entertaining __other__  guests in clothing that ‘shows’ their nipples, or something equally inane.

 

At least it gives them plenty of opportunities to tease him.

 

“My apologies, I do not have a dining spread prepared,” they say. “But I have some fruit and wine. Are you hungry?”

 

Thenvunin finally lets out a sigh, and some of the tension in his neck eases.

 

“No, do not trouble yourself about it,” he replies. “I only… I suppose it was silly to come. I must have gotten my days mixed up.”

 

Uthvir hums, and settles down beside him. They start pulling off some of the more uncomfortable pieces of his armour.

 

“Not to worry. I was just thinking I could use a Thenvunin or two,” they say.

 

In fact, they __had__  somewhat lamented that their current crop of rest days did not align with Thenvunin’s. While it meant that they got a chance to catch up on some sleep and a few neglected hobbies, the day had been long, and perilously dull. Even spending it with Thenvunin around while they napped and dabbled would have been more pleasant.

 

And that thought had gotten them thinking over others, too.

 

Like the fact that they have never quite had a relationship like this one before.

 

They get Thenvunin’s hard clothes off, before leaning in closer, and settling their hands onto his belt.

 

“You are over-dressed,” they tease him. Testing the waters of his interest.

 

He sniffs disdainfully in response.

 

“Only by __your__  ridiculous ‘standards’,” he says. When they brush a hand down his stomach, though, he swallows. And he leans into them a little. Or a lot, by his own standards.

 

Uthvir hums approvingly - for his motions if not his words - and starts untying the soft belt of his uniform skirt. They pull it away, in a slow, deliberate gesture. Then they move on to the ties of the skirt itself. Knee-length, stiff material, that they have never been partial to. It doesn’t ruck upwards comfortably, and if the wrinkle it Thenvunin becomes genuinely distressed by the prospect of ironing it back out again.

 

Whoever designs Sylaise’s military uniforms ought to be flogged.

 

They set the skirt aside carefully, though, and relish the little sigh of relief that escapes Thenvunin’s reserves. He mutters at them - something about lasciviousness - as they push up the bottom of his tunic, and take stock of his smallclothes. He is not hard yet. They take that as a cue to go slow, and instead brush their hands over the taut muscles of his thighs.

 

He feels fatigued. Over-extended. They brush a palm down his left leg and hear a sharp intake of breath.

 

“You pulled something,” they note.

 

“I healed it,” he replies, shifting in their grip. “It just aches a little.”

 

Uthvir moves around to his left side, and examines the damage themselves. Thenvunin, rather than protesting the attention, simply lets out a long breath. And then he lies back against their cushions. Letting them run their hands over his legs, and whisper a few soothing spells of their own. He is telling the truth, though. The injury is healed - the lingering ache is probably a product of the mind more than the muscle. But gently touching it seems to help, if the way Thenvunin’s expression eases is any indication. So they keep doing it. After a minute they fetch some unscented oils from underneath the table, and the small fruit platter they had been indulging in before his arrival. They intersperse their soothing ministrations by feeding him a few bites. Finishing off the strawberries he nibbles the ends off of, and massaging him until he begins to respond to their touch in more… _habitual_ ways.

 

He hides his face in a cushion as his smallclothes develop an obvious tent.

 

Uthvir smirks.

 

Their own arousal is certainly not far behind.

 

They start working the movements of their hands up higher, with each passing stroke. Until their thumbs are brushing at the edges of the tented scrap of fabric, and their fingers are pressing teasingly close to the ties, and then beyond. Up his stomach, and chest. Pressing his tunic higher, to expose more of his skin. They rub more oils into him, and run their nails down his sides.

 

Their gaze fixates on the bob of his throat. The air wavers, just a little, with some building heat.

 

“You must feel very __constrained__  in these,” they say, as they draw a hand back down to the ties of his smallclothes. “I feel nearly trapped in these pants, and they are much looser. And I have not bothered wearing a single thing beneath them.”

 

Thenvunin shivers, and shoots them a __look.__  Uthvir winks back, and steals the opportunity to wriggle their hips. Pulling down the loose set of flimsy red pants, and then kicking them off to one side. They watch Thenvunin’s eyes flit down their figure. Watch them fly away again, as his cheeks darken, and he turns a bashful face back towards their cushions again.

 

Uthvir does not know which urge is stronger - to take him rough or rake him gentle.

 

But they want to have him __so badly__  they can almost taste it.

 

They spread some more oil onto their fingers, and coax his legs further apart. With one hand they carry on stroking his left thigh - it’s a good way to measure his tension - and with the other, they brush their fingers over his trapped erection. Then they shorten their claws, and slide them down and down. Seeking the heat of bare skin, and then the familiar, delicious warmth of his entrance.

 

Going gentle at this stage is a necessity, of course, so they indulge in that layer of impulse. They sooth him with one hand and open him up with the other, keeping quiet at first as they drink in the sight of him. Still in his open-toed boots, with his remaining uniform up around his armpits. His cock straining to escape the small scrap of purple cloth that is over-taxed to contain it.

 

They take their time before they finally undo the ties on that, and set him free; tossing it aside, and working a second finger inside of him.

 

Their impatience gets the better of them, though, as his flushed cock leaks, and his blush spreads down from his neck, and they feel the blood rush to his taint and run a careful claw across the skin of his inner thigh. They let out a low, possessive growl, and move closer. Pulling their fingers of him so that they can draw him up into their lap instead, one hand curled possessively around his thigh, while they use the other to grasp his arm and pull him up. Away from the cushions he might hide behind.

 

They are rough as they slide their cock against his; and gentle as they press a kiss to the pulse point of his wrist.

 

Thenvunin wavers for a moment. Expression opening in a rare display of vulnerability, of __want,__  before he catches his balance and shoves a larger pillow against his back; the better to prop himself up with. His fingers twitch. Nearly brushing Uthvir’s cheek, as they graze his wrist with their teeth.

 

“Hard or soft?” they ask him.

 

His eyes widen.

 

“What?” he asks, uncertainly.

 

They kiss his wrist again, before moving his hand towards their shoulder. His thighs tighten around them, just briefly. They love it when he does that; and they divert from their question to tell him so. Watching his face dark as they pull him closer still, slide their hand from his leg to his lower back. And then down, to grip his backside.

 

“Hard or soft?” they repeat. The feel of his cock against their cock is a scintillating distraction, sending heat all the way down to the tips of their toes.

 

They get Thenvunin’s other hand onto their shoulder. The better to clutch him closer, and feel his skin, and see the tremor of his shaky breaths. It brings them close enough to kiss. But they stop short of it, and lock eyes with him instead.

 

“I want to please you, my beautiful one. My dear, my impossible, wonderful man. What do you want? Shall I take you hard, with unrelenting passion? Or take you soft, with infinite devotion?”

 

His face goes as red as they have ever seen it. His oil-slicked thighs tighten around their waist again, and pull an approving growl from their lips.

 

_“Uthvir,”_ he scolds.

 

They slide a hand to his lap - and theirs - and press their cocks together.

 

“Pick,” they insist.

 

“I… I can’t…”

 

“Thenvunin.”

 

He turns his face away. They press their lips to his neck, and sink their claws into the ample flesh of his backside.

 

“I… ah… just…” he hesitates. His hands tighten just a little on their shoulders, and he lets out a shaky breath.

 

“Hard,” he whispers.

 

So faintly that they might have missed it, if they had not been so close.

 

But they are, and they heard it. So they shift their grip to his cock along, and stroke him roughly. Pulling him relentlessly to completion, until he spills onto their hand and their cock in hot, white droplets. Then they push him down, and spread his legs; finish opening him up with desperate, focused touches. Watching him intently for every reaction. Every caught breath, every twist of his hips. He seems confused when they pull him back into their lap.

 

The temptation to just push his legs further back __is__  considerable.

 

But Uthvir has been resting all day, and the heat surging through them demands a little showing off. They lift up his hips to line him up with their erection, and with only a little fumbling to get into place, keep firm grip on him as they impale him on their cock. They take a moment to relish the feel of him. Slick and so __warm,__  so __good.__  He grips them to keep from falling over, and they fix him with a look full of hunger, before they lift his hips again.

 

They manhandle their beautiful, tall, muscular lover, controlling in his every rise and descent, and they set a __hard__  pace.

 

Thenvunin bites his lips, and fights for composure. They do not give him much quarter, as they keep their gaze fixed on his face. They shift their angle just once, but they know they have gotten it just right when the arousal in the air surges; and Thenvunin’s legs tighten around them, and his breath escapes him in a shaky moan that makes them wish they had a half dozen more hands to spare. They make do with sinking claiming bites into his chest, and calling up their magic until the air is buzzing.

 

Thenvunin’s cock goes hard again. He loses the battle with his restraint, and his breaths break into a litany of gasps and moans. He clutches their shoulders, his own blunt nails scraping their skin, and just when Uthvir thinks they are done for he opens his eyes and fixes them with the most desirous look they have ever seen.

 

_“Uthvir,”_ he pleads.

 

They grip him hard enough to draw beads of blood with their claws, and pull him back down onto their cock. A cry escapes them, reckless and __needy__  for him, for this.

 

They do not even realize that he is coming, too, until they feel his seed spatter against their stomach. Most of their focus is lost in the heady rush of pleasure, though; the surge of spending themselves inside of him, and the choked gasp it draws from him in turn.

 

They clutch him closer as the both of them come down from the rough collision of desires.

 

Thenvunin sags against them. His hands slide down from their shoulders, but he rests his cheek against their head, as their cock slips from the warmth of his body.

 

_Hmm,_  Uthvir thinks. _That won’t do._

 

They pull him to his side and, before they can soften again, slide their way back into him. It makes him shiver. They hold him from behind, and secure a leg over top of him; and then they set about sucking a bruise into the back of his neck. Grazing their teeth across his skin and teasing their nails across his chest, lingering in the heat of him as long as they can.

 

Which ends up being just until their corset and his remaining uniform get too uncomfortable to manage.

 

With a sigh, they get up, and start properly divesting them both of the interfering clothing. The spilled seed starts to dry on their skin, which is not a pleasant sensation. Uthvir does a rough job cleaning them up with their discarded pants - they need washing anyway - before flopping back down on top of their lover.

 

Thenvunin grumbles at them.

 

Uthvir slinks their way up and presses a kiss to his jaw. They nip him in the same place.

 

Then they mover their lips towards his ear. The heat is simmering just beneath their skin again. Still hungry, still __craving__  him, even as the aftershocks of culmination linger in them. They run their tongue up the shell of his ear, and nibble at the tip.

 

“Hard or soft?” they ask him, again.

 

It is well worth it, even when he nearly throws them off of him.

 

 

~

 

 

 

“I am going to miss you,” Uthvir tells him, when they say goodbye to him at the mid-city Market District gate.

 

Thenvunin straightens up, and shakes his head a little. Tamping down on the internal twist that their words put into him. The day is busy, and there is a lot of foot traffic at the gate. A lot of passersby, too many individuals for it to be decorous to lose his grip on his emotions.

 

“Do not be ridiculous, it is only for a month,” he says.

 

Uthvir smirks at him, and reaches over to brush some imagined dust away from the strap of his travel bag. Which mainly contains the extra gear he will need for patrols. Everything else is set to be provided for him, of course, at the fort barracks.

 

“That will not stop me,” they say. “Though perhaps you will be too busy to return the sentiment.”

 

Thenvunin glances at the day’s gate guards. Peacekeepers, and not ones he is terrible familiar with.

 

“I imagine so. Duties must, Uthvir,” he says, in a tone of rebuke. __Not in public.__

 

Uthvir does not press the matter any further, at least. They take a step back, and fold their arms into the sleeves of their spring coat. It is a dramatic piece, all splashes of red and turquoise, with large flowers that seem to almost match the elegant spikes of their hair. Thenvunin feels another twist, and nearly reaches a hand for them.

 

He closes it to a fist instead, and offers them a more circumspect bow.

 

“I will see you when I return,” he promises, hesitating just a little and clearing his throat. “You may write me, if you like.”

 

“I do believe I shall,” Uthvir agrees.

 

They are still smirking. Confident, but minding their manners, but for the final wink they send his way.

 

“Look after yourself,” they request.

 

“Of course,” Thenvunin promises. Then he realizes their farewell might be dragging on for too long, and finally gets himself to turn away. __Stop being ridiculous,__  he chastizes himself. It is only a month. Not even a full one, it is shy of a few days, in fact. Uthvir has been gone before themselves, on their hunts and some week-long trips. And Thenvunin certainly managed just fine without them, even if the abrupt changes to his schedule made him a little anxious and off-kilter.

 

When did he start to get so set in his ways?

 

He pretends that is a valid question, and surely the reason why he finds this deployment an unpleasant prospect, as he finally makes his way into the crossroads. And then onwards, down the upper pathway that leads to the check points, and thence to one of Sylaise’s newest forts.

 

Shath’leal is a relatively small and pastoral settlement in his Lady’s territories, known for its various constructs and designer exports. The butterfly valley of Rad’valas produce carefully breed and fashion living decorations and even practical pollinators for gardens throughout the territories, and Arlathan. The botanical experts of the central city create some of the most beautiful blooms in all of the empire. And the aviaries of Asunan are home to some of Sylaise’s most prestigious bird breeders, boasting the second largest population of domesticated bird species in his Lady’s possession.

 

Thenvunin will only be able to make a brief stop in Shath’leal, however, before proceeding onwards to the new fort, located at the borders with Ghilan’nain’s territories. Nearer to Rad’valas’ butterfly gardens than Asunan’s aviaries. The fortress itself is meant to help deter cross-pollination with renegade species from Ghilan’nain’s wilderness, as Shath’leal is somewhat islanded in a verdant segment of territory which his Lady refused to relinquish back when the territories were last divided. And for good reason; despite its small size and remote nature, the city is valuable, and well-established in Sylaise’s economy.

 

Though this has sometimes led to Lady Ghilan’nain being more… __negligent__  with border security than seems strictly called for.

 

Not, Thenvunin thinks, that the Great Guide has ever been especially meticulous with regards to such things. Allegedly there are whole swaths of Falon’Din’s territories which have become hers simply by dint of invasive flora and fauna.

 

The fort was built with her blessing, however, and also maintains a small contingent of Ghilan’nain’s soldiers to help advise and attend to relevant security concerns. Where the Lady Ghilan’nain herself may often be preoccupied with loftier concerns than the ecological sanctity of Sylaise’s butterfly breeding grounds, her military leaders tend to be more pragmatic.

 

So Thenvunin does not consider his temporary posting a bad job at all. It might even hold appeal as a permanent position, but he has declined to put his name forward for it. It would be a political step down from his aims in Arlathan, of course, even if it would be more secure, and probably permit him better lodgings and weekend trips to Asunan. A moot point now anyway - the post has been given to Commander Temerity, who will take over within the month, after finishing her current assignment.

 

Thenvunin almost regrets his decision as he exist the eluvian into Shath’leal, however, and finds himself walking down a path lined with fragrant gold-leafed trees, yellow blossoms scattering at his feet, and drifting on the breeze towards the domed gardens and greenhouses of the central city. He does not spy the avaries until he is already on the road out; Asunan’s barriers shine delicately in the sunlight, arrayed atop trees the size of buildings.

 

Screecher would love to live in such a place, Thenvunin thinks. Not that it would ever be permitted; the avaries are perfectly balanced and exceptionally regulated. A fluke like Screecher would disrupt the programs and wreak havoc with some of the meticulously designed birds.

 

Still.

 

__Screecher__  would hardly mind that.

 

Thenvunin turns his focus back to his duties, and checks the time. He left a day in advance so as to avoid having to acquire a mount, and it seems he is making good time as he embarks for the fort on foot. Rad’valas is a beautiful valley, split by a winding river that feeds into the rest of Shath’leal and vanishes into the verdant, tangled wildness of Ghilan’nain’s domain. Though Thenvunin finds himself thinking that, perhaps, it is not quite so beautiful as Visaliran. Andruil’s island city, where he and Uthvir had vacationed for a month of shared leave time.

 

It is a silly thought, of course. Shath’leal is lovely, and there is no need for comparisons. But Thenvunin finds his fingers straying to the sapphire pendant beneath his collar.

 

He wonders what Uthvir would make of the landscape.

 

They might like being able to hunt in Ghilan’nain’s wilds. Thenvunin wonders if it is difficult to get permits. And they would probably enjoy the city, too. He stows the thought away for later consideration, and admires the sunset as he finishes his trek out to the fort. The road turns away from the segmented valley and its butterfly gardens, and off towards the looming border, and the singular building set against it. Barriers gleam the most strongly from the guard posts set alongside it. The effect in the waning light is like a pair of massive torches.

 

The fort itself is built for practicality, which is probably a testament to how irritated Sylaise has become with the interference of her sister-by-marriage’s creatures. Thenvunin cannot help but thing, again, of how well-managed the sea monsters of Visaliran were, compared to the unruly look of the dark wilds beyond the fort.

 

But that is hardly fair, he knows. Andruil is Lady Ghilan’nain’s wife. And a forest is not a sea. A great howl goes up from the depths of the wilds, undulating and strange, and makes all the hairs on the back of his neck stand at attention.

 

He finishes his trek at a more hurried pace, and is glad when the sentries at the fort greet him.

 

He is gladder still when he gets inside to find a familiar face.

 

“Passion!” he greets, astounded.

 

General Passion was a commander when he knew her, during his campaign days. Servant to Ghilan’nain, and among her most trusted - if controversial - military leaders. Thenvunin had not realized her identity for a solid year of his early service days, and had embarrassed himself while somehow managing to make a friend in the process. Of course, he suspects that General Passion was mostly inclined to look out for him at the behest of either his mother or nanae, but still. He is genuinely pleased to see her, in her vibrant ceremonial armour, as he strides into the fort’s main courtyard.

 

She greets him with a smile and a solid clap on the back.

 

“Commander Thenvuning!” she replies, equally enthusiastic. Her grip is strong as she takes his forearm and shakes it. “You have no idea how disappointed I was when I heard Temerity got this posting. Here I had hoped we would work together again.”

 

Thenvunin feels a twinge of guilt at the revelation. He offers the General a bow.

 

“Alas, I did not even know you were assigned here myself,” he admits.

 

“Technically, I am not,” Passion confirms, with a shrug. “My Lady wants me a little out of sight these days, it seems. We are building a new outpost of our own not far from here.” Turning, Passion gestures out towards the mountainous wilds, just on the other side of the border. “It should help the fort in its endeavours, though, and I am being given command of the outpost once construction is completed. In the meanwhile, your Lady is graciously hosting me in exchange for all my knowledge on the local wilderness.”

 

Thenvunin blinks.

 

“Are you well-versed in this region?” he wonders.

 

Passion grins, and throws an arm over his shoulder.

 

“Of course! I know all my Lady’s territory. You can hardly build a good strategy of defense without full knowledge of your terrain, and Lord Falon’Din certainly likes to keep us on our toes when it comes to border disputes…”

 

They fall into surprisingly easy conversation, then. Easy because it really __has__  been some time since they were last acquainted. Passion’s rank was a considerably boon to Thenvunin’s early advancements in his career, but her station as one of Ghilan’nain’s servants necessarily limited her ability to sponsor him. As did persistent rumours that her own rank came more from favouritism than merit. But it seems the sayings about old military colleagues are true, as Passion decides to give Thenvunin a personal tour of the fort, and help him settle into the barracks. She regales him with stories of her recent exploits, and equips him with several maps of the area. Then brings him down to the dining hall, with is sunken into the fort’s basement, and introduces him to the rest of the soldiers stationed here.

 

Thenvunin retires for the night with a full belly and a good mood, dressed in regulation nightwear, mentally reviewing the duty roster for the next day.

 

He wakes in the middle of the night to find himself patting at the mattress beside him. A problem swiftly remedied by bunching up some of the bed sheets into his arms, and then drifting peacefully back to sleep again.

 

In the morning he wakes just before sunrise. He stretches out, and yawns until his jaw cracks. Pulling on a robe, he heads for the communal bathing hall. He is one of the first there, it seems, and he makes do with a good scrub beneath the showers, before heading back to his room to change into his uniform and wilderness patrol gear. He opens up the bag he brought with him, and pauses when he sees something purple at the top.

 

Purple?

 

What did he pack that was purple?

 

He reaches into the bag, and pulls out an unfamiliar box, wrapped in purple fabric. Something inside of him does a little __twist__  again as realization clicks, and he turns the box over to find a little tag tied to it. Uthvir’s writing visible on the stiff bit of paper.

 

_For Thenvunin._

 

He swallows, and then he rolls his eyes.

 

If they gave him _contraband_ then he could get into actual trouble for it. There is a limit to what ought to be brought to military outposts, and Uthvir has never served in this capacity. They probably do not even know.

 

He shall have to check to make certain that they have inadvertently sabotaged him.

 

His fingers are careful as he takes off the purple wrappings, though. The material is quite nice, and it smells like Uthvir’s favourite soap. Not the citrus-y one from their building, but the more cinnamon-y sort that they started to use after Thenvunin complained about it. Not that he really __minded__  the citrus scent. On them, anyway. Er. Not that its application especially changed anything about it either, though, of course.

 

Thenvunin sniffs the soft purple fabric, just to be sure, and then turns his attention to the box.

 

It is white, and plain. Inexpensive, but sturdy. He finds the edge and pulls it open. Inside there is some cushioning, set around a…

 

Thenvunin’s face goes deep red, and he hastily slams the lid of the box back into place.

 

“Really, Uthvir!” he snaps at the empty air of his room.

 

Oh, he should have known. Trust them to send along something like __that.__  The arrogant little…! He can almost __feel__ them smirking at him from all the way in Arlathan, all smug and pleased with themselves before feigning innocence at him. _But_   _Thenvunin, you are going to be all alone out there for an entire month - I would not want you to neglect your needs!_

 

As if Thenvunin _needs_  to have something shoved up his… his… as if Uthvir is not so utterly conceited as to think that they have gone and gotten him addicted to it after breaking his dry spell!

 

Thenvunin could have brought his _ _own__  if he had wanted to.

 

He shuts the box more properly, and promptly slides the gift under his bed. Making mental recriminations as he digs out the rest of his things. He puts the soft purple wrappings under his pillow, for safekeeping, and gets dressed for the day. Mentally cursing Uthvir a few times more whenever his thoughts __drift__  inappropriately. Then he meets Passion for their tour patrol, along with the small contingent of troops they are bringing along; and they set out to start making their way down the border. Checking the integrity of the new wards and border posts.

 

Thenvunin and Passion take the lead, with the other soldiers follow at staggered intervals behind. The better to monitor the consistency of the wards.

 

But while the wilds look interesting, and the valley is beautiful, it does not take long for the usual boredom of patrolling to steal over them. Thenvunin and Passion begin to talk.

 

“So last night you heard all about me,” Passion says. “What about you? I heard you got a posting in Arlathan. Prestige or drudge work?”

  
Thenvunin shrugs.

 

“A little of both,” he admits. “It is not an ideal posting, but it is a long way from the slippery slope to obscurity. And I think I could work it into something better, with time.”

 

“You are a good soldier,” Passion says, in a frustrated tone. “You should not have to politic around to get people to acknowledge it. Half of Sylaise’s Generals are not even as competent as you.”

 

Thenvunin blinks, and colours faintly at the praise. But then he shrugs.

 

“I thank you for saying so, but I think my Lady’s needs are quite different from your own.”

 

General Passion mutters something which might be faintly treasonous. Thenvunin is sure he misheard, however, and after a moment, she only nods in firm and upstanding agreement with the foundational tenets of the empire and the greatness of its leaders. Or so he would say, were anyone to ask.

 

“How is Arlathan?” she asks instead, after they have checked the next border post.

 

“Glorious as ever,” Thenvunin declares.

 

“I suppose at least you get to see more of your family there,” Passion muses. A low wind kicks up, and an errant butterfly crosses their path. It does not seem to be one of the designer sort, though. Just a wild one, flitting between the inconsistent blossoms of the wilds.

 

“I do,” he says. “I appreciate it. Aelynthi is doing well. I am certain he would send his regards, if he knew I was going to meet you here.”

 

“You will have to tell him I said hello,” Passion replies, in pleasant small talk.

 

They manage to carry on in this fashion for quite some time. Checking the border. Chatting between points of interest. Passion mentions that most patrols will take mounts, but that for the ground wards, it is generally easier to just go by foot. They do not need checking every day, though. And when they have done a good length of the border, she breaks them off from the main group to go and show him some of the hunting trails carved into the wilderness. The better to navigate by, should issues draw him in past the border. It is overgrown terrain, though, and the trails are narrow; and there are no wards to repel the bugs.

 

They stop for lunch at a relatively bug-free spot along the trail. The tangle of overgrowth has been broken by a clearing; a circle filled with many little mushrooms, in shades of pink and white. They take a seat on an infested log and break out their travel food.

 

“See these mushrooms?” General Passion says.

 

Thenvunin gives her a glance, because it would be fairly hard not to. She grins back at him.

 

“They are all actually __one__  mushroom,” she explains. “Traveler’s delight. Ghilan’nain designed them, ages ago. They are edible raw, even quite nutritious. You can find them throughout the territories, although usually the local wildlife eats them down to a more manageable size.”

 

Looking down, Thenvunin examines the little mushrooms more closely. They are quite cute, and upon inspection, he thinks he has actually eaten them before. Just, cooked, and cut up in various summer dishes.

 

“What is the catch?” he wonders.

 

“No catch,” Passion says, with a sad smile. “Ghilan’nain just made them to feed people. She used to do things like that more often, before. I helped introduce the fungus to various barren regions. It is resilient; a little compost and it tends to take off. Where it grows, other things follow. This one is starting to get big enough that a central sprout is forming. If nothing eats away at it, the middle segment will eventually form a stalk, and then grow into a mushroom the size of a tree.”

 

“And it does not release spores that latch onto the eyeballs of passing creatures and infect their brains with a parasite that renders them comatose, or some such thing?” Thenvunin triple checks.

 

Passion laughs.

 

“No, it does not,” she confirms. Then she plucks one up, demonstrably, and pops it into her mouth. And chews.

 

When the good General does not keel over or swell up or start choking, Thenvunin tries one for himself. It is not much to taste, but there does not seem to be anything wrong with it either. It is spongy and soft. More texture than flavour.

 

“It is a good spot to remember if you ever run out of supplies,” Passion informs him, standing up then. She brushes her hands against her thighs. “But it is not too far from the fort, either. We should keep going.”

 

Thenvunin makes his way to his own feet, and already laments the impending onslaught of bugs.

 

The rest of their tour proves as exhausting as anticipated. When Passion leads him back to the fort, Thenvunin feels dirty and tired. And there is another day of similar trekking waiting the next morning. He scrubs down, and barely makes it through the social niceties of dinner, before making it to his room to collapse onto his bed.

 

There is no room for thoughts in his mind. Just as he told Uthvir; he is much too tired and busy to miss them.

 

He wakes up the next morning with his pillow askew and his cheek pressed to a square of purple fabric.

 

The next day is much like the first. And the third one after that, too. Passion tours him for four days before deciding he can handle patrols, and then resumes her usual duties. Thenvunin schedules himself for morning patrols, and takes over the main reason for his arrival - fort management. Temerity will do a full review and reassessment when she arrives, so Thenvunin just makes certain that the records are up to date, and deals with the immediate management and supply issues and duty roster plans. The new fort does not have nearly so many upkeep issues as some of the older or larger ones he has served in. But it is still quite a lot of work, and it keeps him more than well occupied.

 

He takes his meals in the dining hall, which never lack for company or conversation.

 

There are beautiful views from all corners of the fort, and even a little excitement when a few stray wolves venture into the valley, and need to be chased back off again. They go without fuss, though, and it exposes a weakness in the valley wards, which is then repaired.

 

Uthvir’s first letter arrives after Thenvunin has been gone for five days.

 

It comes by way of a courier spirit. Not the most secure means, by any measure, so Thenvunin is relieved when it does not contain anything too __personal.__  Just a polite greeting, and some comments on the city’s gossip of the past few days, and then a rather pointed - but without context, benign - question as to whether Thenvunin found their gift.

 

Thenvunin re-reads the letter a few times. Mostly because he needs inspiration on how to respond, of course.

 

_Dear Uthvir,_ he starts. And then reconsiders. At their level of courtship, is that the right opener?

 

_Uthvir,_ he tries again. But that seems too… cold.

 

_Sweet Uthvir,_ no, absolutely not. Only sarcastically, he thinks, and pointedly avoids certain recollections of their lips on his wrist and their arms around his waist. Their hands rubbing aches and hurts from his tired muscles.

 

_Dear Uthvir,_  he goes back to, with a little more confidence. _I did indeed find your gift, and you should know that it was wholly unnecessary!_

 

Does that sound too defensive?

 

Thenvunin hesitates.

 

What if someone suspects the nature of the gift from the tone of his response?

 

He starts over again.

 

_I did indeed find your gift. It would be hard to miss it, considering how large it was._

 

Thenvunin meant to refer to the box, and the amount of space it had taken in his bag. But as soon as he puts the line down, he rolls his eyes at himself, and then starts over yet __again.__  It is ridiculous, he tells himself. It is only Uthvir. He can handle writing a simple letter to them, and it is probably pointless to try and be circumspect. They will make it into something lewd or implying no matter what he says. They have a talent at it.

 

_Dear Uthvir,_

_I received your gift, as you know perfectly well. It would have been difficult to miss. I am glad to hear that you are doing well. Please carry on with that._

_Yours,_

_Thenvunin._

 

He nearly crosses out the ‘yours’ a few times, but then rolls his eyes at himself and forces himself to send it instead. Not the most elegant of courtship letters, but then, he is a very busy man with very busy matters to attend to. And spirit couriers are not terribly secure.

 

It takes several days more for him to get a response. Just as long as the first one, and equally cheerful and full of little tidbits of Arlathan’s general goings-on. Thenvunin responds mostly the same way he had the first time, and thinks to himself that perhaps letters were a silly idea. It is only a month, after all. Hardly any time to speak of.

 

The purple cloth stops smelling of cinnamon by the time the third letter comes.

 

Four weeks in, and Thenvunin is quietly availing himself of Uthvir’s gift and finding the whole thing vaguely unsatisfying, in the frustrating manner that seems to have taken precedence over a lot of his… solitary stress relief activities.

 

The day before he is set to leave, Thenvunin feels a fervent rush of relief and excitement. General Passion offers to take a few days leave time and go with him to Asunan, and Thenvunin feels an abrupt lurch of internal conflict. Because it sounds wonderful to spend more time with his old friend and to visit the aviaries, and to see the birds.

 

But…

 

“I have to resume my duties as soon as I get back,” he says, which is true enough, and simplifies matters immensely. “But perhaps we could come and visit you when I have some leave time?”

 

Passion raises an eyebrow.

 

“We?” she wonders.

 

Thenvunin hesitates.

 

“Ah, slip of the tongue,” he says. And while the General does not look convinced, she leaves it at that.

 

Thenvunin offers a few more apologies and promises to visit - much more feasible, with Passion serving so close to Sylaise’s territories - but he cannot quite disguise how happy he is to be going back to the city. Not even to himself. There are many things he loves in Arlathan, of course. His nanae and his brother are there, and it is the epicenter of imperial culture and art and there are so many things to do, places to go, people to see. Different dining halls to eat at, different goods to browse in the marketplace…

 

He is making his way through the crossroads, having passed through Shath’leal in such a whirl he scarcely recalls the scenery, when his steps slow.

 

All the letters he sent back, he thinks, were really quite subpar. Uthvir wrote to him; and Thenvunin barely gave them acknowledgement that he was alive. It would not be surprising if they give him something of a cold shoulder when he gets back. The way they parted, and how… brief… his replies to their writing. How much time he has spent trying to avoid the idea of missing them so much.

 

But…

 

He is far too happy to be going back to deny it.

 

When he gets through the final eluvian to come out at Arlathan’s Market District, he is not expecting to find Uthvir waiting there. After all, there is some variable to travel times. It would be much easier for them to simply let him seek them out, than to try and be there for his return; even knowing the day and general time of it. There is as much of a crowd today as there was the day he left, too. Traders and visitors and Market shipments all passing alone one of the largest paths in the Crossroads. He comes through the glass, and confirms himself with the guards. And steps down from the eluvian’s raised platform.

 

And there they are.

 

Uthvir.

 

Wearing a gauzy dress and knee-high sandals and elegant, wing-style clips in their hair. His heart lurches and his insides twist and rise and he feels just… happy.

 

Thenvunin takes a breath, and before he can lose his nerve, he strides over to where they are standing. Just off to the side of the regular foot traffic. Upon his approach they catch sight of him, and their own face lights up.

 

“I see you made it back in one p-”

 

He cuts them off as he wraps his arms around them. In a single, fluid motion he lifts them from the ground, and spins around once. Squeezing them close enough that he can hear the hitch in their breath, and feel their surprise escape them. Along with something strikingly __pleasant,__  and warm, and just a little startled. Something like wonderment.

 

Thenvunin thinks he will have to do things like this more often, if they are so surprised at the gesture.

 

He sets them back down on their feet, and offers them a smile that might be described as bashful.

 

“I missed you,” he admits.

 

Uthvir’s eyes are wide, and their lips slightly parted. Their cheeks darken conspicuously, as they grip his biceps and seem to marvel at him. Their usual litany of quips and innuendo gone for the moment.

 

“Really?” they ask, a little faintly.

 

Thenvunin clears his throat, and moves his hands to a more polite placement on their back.

 

“Very much,” he confirms. “Did you miss me?”

 

“Oh, yes, every moment you were gone,” Uthvir tells him. Which is ridiculous exaggeration, of course, there is no chance they actually missed him __every__  moment. But it makes Thenvunin’s face heat all the same, as something inside of him twists with pleasure. And for once he does not try to stamp it back down straight away.

 

“Romantic,” he accuses.

 

“Hm, yes you are,” Uthvir fires back.

 

Then they reach up to pull him into a long and fervent kiss.

 

 

~

 

 

Sometimes city trends are an absolutely obnoxious trial to work around.

 

Uthvir can admit that, even though they often to deal with them less than some other events managers do. Arlathan loves her trends. They help define the favoured from the unfavoured; the fashionable from the forgettable; the high class from the low. And sometimes, they are unavoidable if one wishes to remain relevant.

 

Which is how Uthvir has ended up on the inside of a cake.

 

Roughly, anyway.

 

The party they are at is actually an event being thrown by Wonder, one of Ghilan’nain’s chief diplomats. They had leapt at a chance to participate in preparations. While Ghilan’nain does not have many substantial voices in Arlathan, Wonder is definitely one of the few she can claim. He was a servant of Sylaise prior to Ghilan’nain’s ascension, and is even older than his Lady. His events are more rare than most, but always elaborate and impeccable. And getting in on the preparation stage is a good way to rub elbows and make connections, and earn some commendations; which Wonder himself is often quite free with.

 

Had Uthvir known what trends the party would follow… well, they would still go for it, of course. But they might have warned Thenvunin.

 

Then again, maybe not.

 

It had been Wonder’s insistence that all the mid-ranking managers who helped prepare the event should leap out of cakes.

 

A suggestion that would seem utterly random and inane, except for the fact that ‘leaping out of cakes’ has become something of a relevant party trend. It began with Ghilan’nain herself gifting Andruil with a ‘cake’ that burst open in a flurry of birds. Delicious birds, which Andruil proceeded to shoot down in quick succession, and then had roasted and served in sweet glazes.

 

Not to be outdone on the subject of romantacism, Lord June had followed up the display with a birthday celebration for his wife, with a cake that opened up to reveal the illusion of several dancers galavanting through the tiers.

 

Ghilan’nain countered his efforts with a cake that opened up to reveal a pair of new living ‘dolls’ for her wife.

 

And thus the trendiness of ‘things in cakes’ had been set, and had veered notably towards ‘ _ _people__  in cakes’. Of course, elements such as living dolls or cakes the size of small houses were reserved for the leaders themselves. Even the highest ranks would struggle to achieve such things for their own celebrations - and risk skirting too close to the realms of ‘challenging’ the leaders if they tried. It is one thing for Ghilan’nain and June to engage in a celebratory pissing contest, and quite another for some upstart event manager to make them feel slighted.

 

So mostly the trend had manifested in the form of attractive performers leaping out of cakes.

 

The Pleasure District, Uthvir believes, has been running quite wild with the concept in particular.

 

But Wonder’s take had veered more towards some sort of appreciation for the contributions of the party managers.

 

“You should get a little chance to do something glamorous!” he insisted. “Be a star of the night, too! And this event’s managers are all such lovely, tiny people - it is perfect!”

 

Uthvir had raised an eyebrow at the comment. Though they suppose Wonder was mainly alluding to the fact that, by chance, none of the mid-ranking managers were more than five span in height.

 

So now they are inside of a cake. Wearing very little in the way of clothing, beyond some jewellery and a shimmering short skirt, and waiting for the signal to leap out and be charming. Which is in their ability to manage, though there is a reason they never actually went in for the performance lifestyle. The inside of the cake is quite dark, and cramped. They count their breaths, and wait.

 

And finally, a little light goes off. Granting them a moment’s warning before the top of the cake opens up in a rush of sparkles, and the little circular platform which Uthvir is standing on shoots upwards. They strike a pose, and put on a smile. Though they can barely see past the sparks. Wonder is saying something about his ‘lovely assistants’. Uthvir’s eyes flit over the assembled crowd, before they follow their cue and jump down from the platform, and move to stand in the line up of mid-ranking managers arrayed behind the party’s host.

 

“Now let the revelries begin!” Wonder exclaims, and throws more sparks into the air.

 

As the large arrangement of guests offers some applause, Wonder turns to look back towards them all.

 

“Go on and enjoy yourselves, then, my pretty minions!” he instructs. “The party is well in hand, you should mingle! Feast! Seduce! Make sure everyone is as charmed as I am but the six of you.”

 

One of the other managers giggles, and draws a wink from the charismatic party planner. Uthvir opts for a bow instead, and takes the offered leave. They have a change of clothes in one of the servants’ alcoves, just a little more suitable for spending a cool winter’s night in, and a few guests they want to try and strike up conversation with.

 

And a slim chance that Thenvunin did not see that little demonstration. Though they are not certain if they would rather he did or did not.

 

The question is settled for them when they are barely off of Wonder’s pavilion before an agitated bird swoops in on them.

 

“Uthvir!” Thenvunin snaps. He is wearing a very high-collared floor-length gown, fashionably blue, with an enviably warm coat. It looks very nice on him. Actually shows off his waist for once, too. “You jumped out of a cake?!”

 

“Oh is that what that was?” they drawl, wryly. “I could hardly see past the sparks.”

 

“You are nearly naked!” Thenvunin hisses.

 

“Well, yes, that was the uniform for the cake jumpers,” they reason. “Would you care to escort me to a private alcove?”

 

They give him a flirty look, but he actually seems somewhat agitated over the whole thing. A passing elf - not one Uthvir knows, but they have Sylaise’s markings on - pauses, and gives them a once over.

 

“Hey, if _he_  doesn’t want to-” they begin.

 

Thenvunin’s back goes ramrod straight, and before Uthvir can blink, he rears back and punches the other elf right in the gut. Hard enough to send him staggering backwards with a surprised oath, and then a wheeze, and then several unexpected apologies.

 

Uthvir watches them hurry away.

 

They point after the stranger.

 

“How hard did you hit them?” they wonder. That was an awfully thorough withdrawal.

 

“Just hard enough,” Thenvunin replies, before shrugging off his coat. He hands it stiffly to Uthvir. Who bites back a quip about it at the obvious discomfort in him, and rather, just accepts it. The blue does not clash with their silvery skirt, at least, and it feels wonderfully warm from Thenvunin’s body heat. The party is not actually __cold__ , per se - just not quite warm enough for near-nudity.

 

“Thank you,” they offer.

 

“Yes, well. Considering how _disreputable_ you keep making yourself, I suppose I ought to help prevent some of the consequences,” Thenvunin replies, with an unhappy sniff. “Why did you leap out of a cake, of all things? You are a manager, not hired entertainment.”

 

They shrug.

 

“It was Wonder’s idea,” they explain.

 

Thenvunin frowns.

 

“...Ah,” he says. “Wonder is very influential.”

 

“Just so,” they agree. Then they wave dismissively. “But he is well-meaning. He wanted to make us all part of the grand display.”

 

“How generous,” Thenvunin replies, his tone so flat that Uthvir laughs. They reach over, and thread their arm through his. His coat smells like him. For some reason, it is doing wonders for their mood - probably the warmth is a great help on that.

 

“Come on,” they say. “Let us go and find that secluded alcove. Just you and I - no one else allowed.”

 

“ _ _Uthvir!__ ” Thenvunin protests, as if they have suggested something scandalous. “The party has only begun! You should have __some__  discretion!”

 

Despite his words and tone, though, he does not resist at they tug him along.

 

And the look on his face when they get there and pull out a full-length evening gown, in a soft white that compliments his blues, is well worth all the teasing.

 


End file.
